


Everyone's Gonna Know Now

by Temora



Series: On Becoming Santana Lopez [3]
Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, First Time, POV Third Person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-29
Updated: 2012-06-14
Packaged: 2017-11-04 12:50:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Temora/pseuds/Temora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Santana confronted Finn about outing her, his response was, "The whole school already knows." That was pretty much true. This story is about the first moment, incident, conversation or realisation in which each and every member of Glee - and a few others - discovered Santana's secret.</p><p>This story is part of a chronological series, but each can be read as a standalone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Quinn and Artie

**Author's Note:**

> Santana's outing bothered me immensely. Kurt gets a season-long arc. Dave gets attempted suicide and a Very Special Episode. Santana gets outed – first to the school and then to the entire state, and it's solved with singing Lady Music – by the guy responsible for her outing in the first place? No, thank you, sir.

" _You tell her, too? Everyone's gonna know now – because of you!"_

" _The whole school already knows. And you know what, they don't care!"_

" _Not just the school, you idiot! EVERYONE!"_

" _What are you_ _ **talking**_ _ab-"_

The vicious slap echoed through the auditorium, and the bell rang, and then everyone knew.

* * *

**QUINN FABRAY**

Quinn had always known.

The Unholy Trinity may not have spent much time together of late, but they used to be inseparable. Quinn and Santana had always had a strange push-pull between them; a ferocious protective affection for each other that swung so quickly to a challenging power-play and back again that it would leave them both dizzy and exhausted in its wake. Quinn used to think of them like puppies in a pack, scrapping to see who was in charge. Quinn usually won, but she was no fool. The day Santana Lopez _really_ decided to bare her teeth would be the day Quinn went down. Lucky for them both that they loved each other.

They were all together sometimes, Brittany draped across the bed with earphones in, her feet uncontrollably tapping a beat, and Quinn would be doing a simple task, like braiding Santana's hair, and be suddenly overcome with a stomach-jolting, throat-searing rush of pure _love_ for this proud, stubborn, angry, smart, hilarious, violent, loving, gentle girl that sat before her.

Santana would feel that, and look up, and smile with the same love, and then poke her and call her a bitch, and Quinn would call her Whoretana or Taco Bell, and Brittany would pull an earphone out and say they were both more stupider than even her, and they would laugh and hug each other and then go about their day like they hadn't just felt the earth change a little bit with how much they all loved one other. Best friends can be like that.

Quinn missed that now, missed _Santana,_ more than she would ever, ever admit. Because somewhere along the line, the push-pull became push-push, and instead of one of them winning, they both lost each other. Now Quinn didn't know what to say to the proud, stubborn, angry girl who looked so sad all of the time. It just felt … like it was too late now. Too late to get it right.

Santana and Brittany, however – that had always been just pull-pull. Quinn watched them constantly; that was the thing about being the top of the Trinity, you know – it's shaped like a pyramid. You might be on top, but you're alone up there. The two people below you have to work closely together to keep you there, and Santana and Brittany knew each other the way blood knows veins.

Quinn made sure neither of them ever knew how intensely jealous she was of their closeness, or the fact that both of them would choose each other in a heartbeat before they ever chose her. She was envious of their easy affection and covetous of the way Brittany could joke or hug Santana out of dark moods when Quinn couldn't, or that Santana knew exactly what to say when Brittany was feeling overwhelmed or confused. She made sure they never knew, because she was Quinn goddamn Fabray, and Quinn Fabray sure as hell didn't want things she couldn't have.

Quinn watched as they pulled further away from her and closer and closer to each other, and tried desperately not to show how scared and alone it made her feel. She pretended not to care about private jokes. She pretended not to see them whispering in corners.

And when the day came that she passed Brittany's slightly open bathroom door to see Brittany perched on the edge of the sink with her arms around Santana's neck, and legs around Santana's waist, and Santana's hands up the back of Brittany's shirt, their lips pressed fiercely together, Quinn slipped away silently with blood rushing in her ears and a wobbly, sick, hot-icy feeling in her stomach, and pretended not to have seen that, too.

So, maybe it wasn't long after not-seeing that kiss that the push-pull became push-push, and maybe Quinn knew why; because playing second fiddle to a friend was one thing, but playing second fiddle to _that_ was another. Sometimes … sometimes Quinn wondered briefly why neither Santana nor Brittany had chosen her.

Quinn knew, but she didn't say anything. To anyone. Ever.

* * *

**ARTIE ABRAMS**

_Sex isn't dating. If it were, Santana and I would be dating._

That phone call. If he hadn't heard that, he wouldn't have suspected. If he hadn't suspected, he wouldn't have asked. If he hadn't asked, he'd still have Brittany. That damned phone call.

Artie had always had a problem with Santana. He didn't understand how anyone could just … get through the world the way she did: fists up, all vicious words and prickly snaps, yet still somehow manage to have people both love and understand her, Brittany most of all. Artie knew that even if he didn't have the protection of his wheelchair – the thing that made people pity him, coddle him, maddeningly talk down to him – he wouldn't be able to get away with the stunts that Santana pulled every day.

Santana reminded Artie of a cat; changeable, volatile, unfathomable. _Come here-fuck off-love me-get lost-pat me-I hate you-no, come back-you're awesome-you suck-I brought you a present-give me everything-I love you-go to hell._

When he had to watch, during the year that he was with Brittany, the two of them with pinkies linked and whispering in each other's ears, and Brittany's hands casually on Santana's legs, and putting notes in each other's lockers, and Santana jealously pulling Sam and Brittany apart at Rachel's party (Artie didn't think that had anything to do with Sam), and Brittany's face lighting up on Saturday nights at Breadstix when she got a _come over later_ text from Santana…

Well. Let's just say Artie always had a feeling, and decided never, ever to ask Brittany about it, because he still couldn't believe that she was his, however nominally.

_Sex isn't dating._ It beat in his head like a drum.

Then _Landslide_ happened, and Artie couldn't pretend any more. He saw Santana stripped bare, so bare that he couldn't believe the rest of the room wasn't staring at the huge, neon I'M IN LOVE WITH BRITTANY sign that was flashing above her head, and he saw the surprise and love in Brittany's eyes, and then the hurt when Santana denied the song was for her, and he eventually had to ask - _had_ to.

_If it were, Santana and I would be dating._ Boom, boom, boom.

That damn phone call started everything.

When the others asked why he and Brittany had broken up, Artie took all the blame and said it was because he'd called Brittany stupid.

Artie knew, but the shame of losing his girl to Santana freakin' Lopez kept him quiet.

 


	2. Kurt and Blaine

**KURT HUMMEL**

Kurt was on the line for the _sex isn't dating_ phone call as well. Kurt never forgot that call. Because it was the first time at William McKinley High that he didn't feel like a total freak outsider, even it was only for a few seconds.

Kurt loved Brittany to pieces – always had, always would. And Brittany loved Santana. So Kurt accepted Santana into his world with good grace, even though her surliness could be as off-putting as her occasional flashes of friendship were lovely.

He found himself watching the two girls quite often. _You have slept together,_ he remembered thinking once, in the choir room, watching them work on a complicated dance move. _At least one time, probably more, the two of you have been naked and kissed each other and have slept together._ It was a sexless thought; Kurt derived no pleasure, voyeuristic or otherwise, from the image. It was clinical - studious, even.

It blew Kurt's mind that something which overtook his entire life, swallowed his every waking thought, every dream – the idea of being with someone of the same gender – something which made his hands itch and his cheeks flame – could be sitting here right in front of him all the time, and the world hadn't ended for either of them. They continued their easy intimacies, and he saw the way Santana's face and voice softened for Brittany, and he saw the longing look in Brittany's eyes sometimes when Santana sang. He imagined the two of them wrapped around each other, all girl-sunny and sleepy and warm, like cats in long grass.

He didn't understand why it was easy for them, and hard for him. Why it was something they could apparently put away and forget about when convenient boys came along, and pick up later as if nothing had happened.

When he thought deeply about it, it made him angry; the casualness with which they could touch each other and flirt and laugh and, yes, crack jokes about making out in front of boys, and still be best friends and have nobody question them. Angry because it felt like a lie, or a algebra problem Kurt didn't know the answer to.

It made Kurt feel less alone and more alone at the same time. Kurt knew they slept together, but he never knew it was love. Because Brittany played her cards so close to her chest that nobody even realised she was holding cards in the first place. And Kurt didn't want to take the time to understand Santana, because frankly, until he met Blaine, and Santana turned into one of their fiercest defenders, Kurt didn't think she deserved it.

Kurt knew, but the only person he ever talked to about it was Blaine, eventually. And by that time, it wasn't even happening any more, and Santana was growing smaller by the day.

* * *

**BLAINE ANDERSON**

Blaine "knew" because Kurt had told him once about the sleeping together thing, but he knew it was more, because he once saw Santana crying brokenly and helplessly in a parked car out the back of the Lima Bean. When he looked around, he saw Brittany walking away, head low, hands limply by her sides, the usual skip gone from her step. Since Santana Lopez crying like _that_ was akin to the sun exploding, and since he'd done some crying in parked cars himself while watching people leave, somehow Blaine just knew. And all in one second, Blaine understood Santana a hell of a lot better and it made something inside him hurt a little.

He went over to the car, and knocked gently on the window. Santana looked up, saw him, scrubbed furiously at her eyes, and started the engine. Blaine didn't even have time to finish saying, "If you ever need…" before she drove away, tyres squealing. Blaine kind of understood that, too.

The next day at school, Santana appeared behind him in the hallway, and hissed into his ear, "Hey Rudolph Valentino, if you ever tell _anyone_ I was…" She raised her finger and jabbed it at his chest.

Blaine just smiled at her and grabbed her hand and squeezed it, and wonder of wonders, Santana didn't pull away. Instead, she stared at their joined fingers with an unreadable look on her face.

Finally: "Yeah, well." She took a deep, rattling breath, and met his eyes. "Whatever, right?"

Blaine felt her hand tighten in his for a miniscule second, before she shot him a suspiciously watery, half-second grin, dropped his hand, and walked away.

Blaine knew. But he never talked about it, even to Kurt.


	3. Tina and Sue Sylvester

**TINA COHEN-CHANG**

Tina knew because, even though she'd forgotten about the phone call (impossible as that sounds), she remembered a field trip from History class way back in her freshman year where Mrs Goldberg took them to the Bicycle Museum of America in New Bremen. Tina took AP History, so was shuttled along with the sophomores. She was grateful that Rachel was in the class, because she barely knew anybody else.

Tina didn't know what bicycles had to do with history, but there was still something so-lame-it's-kinda-cool about the guy who led them through all three floors and droned on about the 387 different kinds of bikes on display. Like, who devoted their life to bicycles? _Really?_

The rest of the class dragged around, groaning intermittently about how crap everything was and how dumbass bikes are and how over it they were. Everybody except Puck - who had already stolen a tandem and was riding it around the parking lot, smoking - and Brittany, who was lost in paroxysms of delight. She flitted from corner to corner, room to room, up stairs and down stairs, eyes wide and excited. And behind her, every step of the way, was Santana, trying – and failing – to look extremely cool and bored. Tina watched with interest. The two girls had only recently joined Glee. Tina didn't know either of them well enough to say anything much more than hi in the halls, and she was mostly too scared of Santana to do even that.

She watched as Brittany dragged Santana over to a 1881 penny-farthing, eyes wide. "Santana, look! Look!"

"I see it, Britt."

"No, but look! Can you imagine how hard it would be to ride that? The wheel is taller than Rachel!"

Santana buffed her nails against her shirt and rolled her eyes. "Garden gnomes are taller than Rachel."

"Hey!" Rachel objected loudly, perched atop a nearby BMX.

Brittany turned to Santana. "Help me up?"

"I don't think we're supposed to-" Santana began, before grinning. "Sure, babe, grab on."

Tina watched as Brittany effortlessly leapt onto Santana's back, then shoulders and clambered onto the bike, which wobbled in its struts. She watched Santana laughing as Brittany pretended she was on some kind of bucking bronco, watched Brittany reach down her hand and grasp Santana's to steady herself, saw the tension that Santana carried around everywhere slip away from her for a brief minute, until Mrs Goldberg found them and shooed them all away with tut-tutting and threats of detention.

Later, when the rest of the class were filing onto the bus, Santana was missing. Mrs Goldberg was about to raise the alarm when Tina looked out the window and saw Santana loping towards them from the front door of the museum, a small white package in her left hand.

Santana blew off Mrs Goldberg's shrill "That's detention, Lopez!" with an idle flap of her hand and a "Whatever." She made her way down the row until she reached Brittany, whose feet were on the aisle seat, saving it for her friend. From across the aisle, Tina watched as Brittany lifted them, and then rested them on Santana's lap, like it was the most natural cushion in the world. Santana's right hand curled under Brittany's calf, and her left placed the little white bag on Brittany's lap.

"What's this?"

Santana shrugged. "Nothing much, just thought you'd like it and went back to get it."

Brittany opened the bag and squeaked with delight. Tina smiled as a tiny replica of the penny-farthing was revealed, perfect in every detail. When Brittany wrapped her arms around Santana and squeezed the hell out of her, Tina saw Santana's own arms raise themselves, almost helplessly, and respond in kind, threading around Brittany's waist.

Brittany pulled back and looked into Santana's eyes, her cheeks flushed pink and a little smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "Thank you."

Tina saw Santana swallow slightly before she answered, quietly and warmly. "You're welcome."

"You got detention to get this for me?"

Santana smiled. "Always worth it, Britt."

Brittany laid her head on Santana's shoulder with a happy sigh, and sat turning the little bike over and over in her hands, eyes aglow. Santana gazed at her, her face gentler than Tina had ever seen.

And suddenly, for Tina, it clicked. "Oh."

This caught Santana's attention, and the cool mask Tina was so familiar with dropped immediately over her features. She glared across the aisle. "Why are you making sounds, Twilight?"

Tina swallowed, felt the stutter rise in her throat. Only Santana Lopez could turn a fake stutter into a real one. "Noth … no r-reason."

Santana nodded. "Damn straight." Firmly, defiantly, she tucked both her arms back around Brittany's waist. Brittany hummed happily against her shoulder. But Santana's tension was back, and even though Tina stared resolutely out the window as the desperately suburban streets of New Bremen slid by, she could tell that Santana eyes were on her, daring her to say something, anything.

Tina knew. But she didn't tell anyone, not even Artie, who she was kind of hoping would ask her out sometime soon.

* * *

**SUE SYLVESTER**

There was nothing Sue Sylvester didn't know about her girls. Nothing at all. It had very little to do with the fact that she'd used Cheerios camp as a cover to have spy equipment installed in all their kitchens so she could keep track of their diets, and everything to do with good, old-fashioned observational skills. She'd honed hers while training with the Ghurkas in Singapore. Those lazy bastards didn't have much to offer that Sue Sylvester didn't already know, so it was a short tour of duty.

In the fall of junior year, a new Cheerio had transferred in from nearby Defiance. Her name was Lola, and she was definitely not a showgirl. What she _was,_ was a tower of bottom-of-the-pyramid strength and a grade-A, first-class bully. Sue Sylvester approved. Sue Sylvester liked only one thing more than a dumb workhorse, and that was a vicious dumb workhorse. Lola was both in spades.

Sue watched as within a week she had reduced almost every girl on the squad to quivering wrecks, with the exception of Santana Lopez and Brittany Pierce; the former because Lola was still working her way up to it, and the latter because she'd been out of school on a dance retreat. Lopez had been looking pretty bleak, and Sue was just about to recommend brimstone and treacle three times a day when Pierce reappeared and so, immediately, did Lopez's spark.

Sue filed that away under Potentially Useful Things That Need More Intel, and forgot it.

Until the day that Lola purposely let Brittany fall from the top of the pyramid.

"OH, BITCH, NO YOU DIDN'T!"

Sue looked up from the stack of feedback letters from the focus group who routinely assessed her potential candidacy for the Omani royal family. (All signs pointed to yes.) Across the gymnasium, she saw Brittany sprawled on the ground with a rapidly swelling ankle and a triumphant Lola towering over her. A blur of red and white uniform and long black hair was storming towards them.

Sue sat back in her seat and pulled out the popcorn from the third drawer down. This was gonna be a good show, and Sue Sylvester never missed a good show.

" _What did you just do to her_?" Santana raged, chest to chest with Lola.

"It was her own clumsy-ass fault," Lola replied, smirking.

Brittany was massaging her ankle. "I went to swing down but there was only air where her hand was supposed to be." She looked up at Lola. "Did you go invisible?"

Lola turned back to Santana. "If she learned how to lock her grip…"

Santana poked her in the chest, hard. "Britts has been locking her grip since before you learned how to unlock your jaw, _cavewoman,_ so you best step off _right now_ and say you're sorry, before I _makes_ you sorry."

Lola put her hands on her hips, glowering. "I'm not sorry."

"You should be, Nomi Malone. Sorrier than _we_ all are that your - air quote - parents ever found you down that hole!"

Sue nodded her approval. Nice one, Lopez. That girl would make a fine savage pit-bull, uh, head cheerleader one day. She also noted the pure adoration shining from Brittany's face.

Lola scoffed dismissively. "I'm not apologising for shit. This is cheerleading, not nursery school. Accidents happen."

Santana stared Lola down, a nasty smile surfacing. "They sure do."

Thirty seconds later, Santana was carrying Brittany away _Officer And A Gentleman_ style amid wild rounds of Cheerio applause, while Lola sat groaning on the ground with both hands pressed to her right eye.

"WHOOPS!" Santana crowed, gleefully.

"That's how she does it in Lima Heights," floated back from the Brittany-shaped bundle in Santana's arms, as they disappeared into the locker rooms. "Bitch."

Sue Sylvester put the popcorn away. Good finale. That show was a B+. Could've been an A, but there was a disappointing lack of blood. Also, Bob Saget.

"LADIES!" she bellowed. "As much as most of you don't deserve that term, I'm going to let you keep pretending for the rest of the day if you can show me even an ounce of the beautifully violent chutzpah Lopez just demonstrated. Otherwise, I fear I'll have to arrange to switch you for those mouthbreathing clones from upstate that I had made from samples taken from your shampoo bottles." She paused, pointing a finger at each girl in turn, loving the way they withered under her glare. "Like a beautiful communist dictatorship, I'm always watching. _Especially_ when you can't see me. Carry on."

As Sue entered the locker room, something – she didn't know what – perhaps her acutely tuned sense of convenient and opportunistic timing (learned while studying under Perez Hilton), made her pause silently in the doorway.

Brittany was propped on a bench, her swollen foot in Santana's lap. Santana was sitting on the ground in front of her, massaging the ankle gently. Neither girl saw Sue.

"Owow," Brittany complained. "I won't be able to dance for, like, weeks."

"It'll be okay, babe," Santana told her tenderly, her hands moving in gentle circles.

Sue blinked. She'd never heard Lopez use that tone before. Sue didn't like it. Lopez sounded positively … neutered.

Brittany reached out and started playing with Santana's hair. "It is okay," she whispered, grinning. "I can think of plenty of other ways to exercise instead."

Sue's eyes narrowed. Was Lopez blushing? Was that the dirty pink stain of teenage sexual embarrassment she saw painted on Lopez's admittedly otherwise flawless ethnic skin? Sue Sylvester thought it was.

"Britt," Santana managed hoarsely, her cheeks on fire. "We're at school."

"I know," Brittany said, wriggling on the bench. "But what you just did was, like, so super hot. If you'd seen you, you wouldn't blame me."

Santana grinned up at her, and her hands started sliding slowly up past Brittany's ankle. "I see you every day, and I still manage to-"

A small squeak came from Brittany, and Santana's hands immediately stilled. "Did I hurt you?"

"It wasn't you," Brittany said, eyes beginning to water. "It just does really hurt."

Santana leaned forward, brought her lips incredibly lightly to Brittany's swollen ankle, and kissed it. "Is that better?"

Brittany shook her head, biting her lip.

Santana kissed her ankle again, grinning around her task. "How about now?"

"Getting warmer," Brittany said, her breath starting to hitch. "But … I have a new problem."

"What's wrong, babe?"

Brittany's eyes sparkled mischievously. "Now my mouth hurts."

Santana looked at her for a second, and then a helpless smile broke out. "C'mere."

" _Yes!"_ Brittany fist-pumped, before giggling into Santana's gentle kiss.

Sue watched. Sue didn't approve. It wasn't quite the disapproval of the Sneaky Gay, although if Sue had her way, she'd give both of them buzz-cuts just so she could see them coming. It was the disapproval of thinking she might be losing two of her best point dogs to the totally useless throes of Sapphic intrigue. God knows, KD Lang and Ellen DeGeneres never took down the opposition from the inside; they were too busy crooning vagina music and dancing on television in hideous sweater vests.

Sue knew. But she bided her time, filing it away under Useful Things That Might Get Me Something I Want One Day. Other than that, she told nobody.

 

**Next: Rachel and Mercedes**


	4. Rachel and Mercedes

**RACHEL BERRY**

Rachel Berry knew, because of something she saw, and because of something Brittany said, but not in that order.

Now, Rachel was not a world-class noticer of things. Mostly she noticed Finn, and occasionally Quinn, but first and foremost she noticed herself. Rachel had a habit of studying her own reflection daily, arranging her features into different kinds of smiles, each appropriate for a given situation.

There was the _oh, I can't believe you like my voice_ beatific and slightly modest smile, for post-competition parental and audience encounters. There was the _this has been my lifelong dream_ tearful, beaming smile for Tony or Oscar wins. There was the shy, understated _I know I just did something unselfish and wonderful and I'm hoping you notice it too_ humble smile. There were several others, but Rachel had yet to name them all. Her current favourite was the in-development _Why yes, I am Rachel Berry from Broadway_ for future fan meetings on the street. At the moment, Rachel felt she was leaning too heavily towards eagerness and was trying to work 'thankful yet appropriately distant warmth' into it.

Because she didn't really pay much attention until recently, as far as Rachel knew Santana Lopez had only one kind of smile. It was a _heads-up-bitch-I-just-gots-my-evil-on_ laser-eyed grin that Rachel feared more than anything else on earth besides a certain expression that Quinn got every so often when she looked at Rachel in Glee. (Rachel didn't know what to do with that look from Quinn, because sometimes it made her afraid, and sometimes it made her confused, and sometimes it gave her butterflies, so she mostly pretended it wasn't happening.)

The two girls had been spending a lot of time together (with Brittany, naturally) for West Side Story rehearsals, and there was a slowly budding, slightly reluctant, gossamer-thin, could-break-at-any-second friendship being constructed that Rachel was unreasonably happy about. Rachel had once passed by Artie and Brittany arguing about Santana in the hall just in time to hear Brittany say, "Everyone thinks she's a bad person, but she's not!" At the time, Rachel had scoffed silently to herself. Now, she had to admit that – eighth wonder of the world – Brittany was right.

Santana wasn't a bad person. She was a guarded person, and a prickly person, and lots of other kinds of person as well, including sometimes mean. But she wasn't a _bad_ person, and Rachel was slowly, but surely, discovering this for herself.

It all came down to small moments. Santana giving her an approving nod after a good run-through. Calling Brittany, who was on a coffee run (Brittany never missed a rehearsal), to ask her to pick one up for Rachel as well. The fact that she knew Rachel's coffee order without asking. The time Rachel's car wouldn't start, and Santana picked her up for school and dropped her home from rehearsals for two days. The time Rachel asked for help in Spanish and Santana gave it to her without once calling her _est_ _ú_ _pido_. Rachel, forever seeking approval, was unable to shut away the sheer, childlike delight she got from being accepted into Santana's world with anything less than outright derision.

These times were, of course, balanced with the time Santana took a picture of Rachel on her phone and announced she was using it as a blueprint to build a gigantic ego-robot, and didn't tell her when her white Maria dress was torn right down the back until after Rachel had sung in front of the band for two hours and Santana had suspiciously requested several demonstrations of the splits. Also the time they argued over which key to transpose the 'Tonight Quintet' into, and Brittany had to drag a flailing Santana away as she shouted, " _Chingate! El burro sabe mas que tu!_ _Escucha soy de_ _Lima Heights Adjacent!_ _Voy a romperte el culo_! _"_

Rachel, dodging the songbooks and prop stools being thrown at her, didn't want to look up the translation, and never did.

Since, however, for Santana versus Rachel, these counted as tame incidents, Rachel shrugged them off and continued to tally up the wins instead, like the time Santana casually reached out and opened a locker door directly into the face of a wannabe-tough sophomore who was about to slushie Rachel in the hall.

Santana brushed her away, impatiently interrupting Rachel's grateful thanks with, "What? Get over it, Berry. You're excruciating, and sometimes I fantasise about the inevitable day you go a Gary Busey level of crazy and roam the streets of New York wearing trash bags and singing into a pez dispenser. But - and god knows why - you're one of my..." She trailed off, searching for an appropriate word.

"Things," Brittany supplied, helpfully, her arm looped through Santana's.

Santana smiled at her. "Things," she agreed, with a satisfied nod. "And nobody touches my stuff."

Rachel was thrilled.

Rachel's happiness about the situation might have had something to do with slowly winning over a former tormentor. It might have had something to do with the fact that when Santana wasn't biting your hands off, she was _fun_ and funny, crackling with energy, and occasional surprising warmth. Whatever the reasons, Rachel was immensely enjoying Santana's gradual thaw.

It was in their singing, though, that Rachel finally found the ultimate common ground with Santana. Rachel had lately been feeling very, very threatened by Santana's daily-growing vocal ability. Where had this voice suddenly sprung from? Why hadn't Rachel seen her coming? It made Rachel nervous, and for the first time in her life, she was forced to consider that she might actually have a peer who was her equal, albeit in a very different stylistic way. It was gratifying and relieving, therefore, to see that however blasé she pretended to be about it, Santana had to practice just as hard as Rachel did to be as good as she was. And in those practice sessions, Rachel suddenly started to _see_ Santana.

Rachel recognised Santana's grim determination to get a song exactly as it should be, a step, a dance move, the right tilt of her head at the right time. The downward turn of her mouth when a note wasn't _perfect._ There was a set to Santana's jaw and a glint in her eye that Rachel recognised from countless self-esteem talks to herself in the mirror and failed attempts at _La Boh_ _è_ _me_ in the basement.

It was this, above everything, that finally made Rachel stop seeing Santana in one dimension, and start seeing her in three. And it felt to Rachel that once she finally started _seeing_ Santana, she couldn't stop seeing everything about her. And everything included Brittany.

Always a figure of loveable amusement to Rachel (who had never quite figured out that Brittany wasn't her biggest fan), Brittany simply was where Santana was. Always. Without question. She came to rehearsals. She waited outside classes. They went to Cheerios together. They drove to school, and home together. They did homework together in the back of the choir room. They sang together. They sometimes finished each other's sentences, and sometimes didn't speak at all, merely moved as a unit without consulting each other. Once Rachel saw Brittany glance around on the floor for something, only to suddenly reach out sideways without looking, and take a small bracelet from Santana, who not only had her back to Brittany, but was holding it over her shoulder without a word or a sound.

Rachel was mildly jealous. Not of either girl, because they complemented each other in a way that would never fit with Rachel, but of their closeness. She had grown up desperately wanting - and always lacking - a female best friend, and had spent countless hours romanticising the idea of what it would be like to have someone so close to her that they practically _were_ her.

One day, she asked Brittany, who was perched in the front row, "You and Santana – it's like that thing – that thing where she's your best friend and your sister at the same time, isn't she?"

"No," Brittany replied, looking a little puzzled, like Rachel just said something stupid.

Out of the corner of her eye, Rachel saw Santana stiffen slightly, like she was holding her breath.

"More than that," Brittany said simply, gazing up at the girl in question. "She's my _all_ the things."

Rachel followed the gaze to see Santana, seated at the piano, swallow heavily and look upwards towards the amphitheatre lights, her lips pressed together. Rachel saw, with a sudden growing understanding, that Santana's arms were covered with goose-bumps.

_She's my all the things._

The simplicity and beauty and … _totality_ of it blew Rachel away. There was something so unshakeable about the way Brittany had said it; a steady, serene surety that there wasn't anything in the world that Santana couldn't be for her. The thought of a certainty like that made Rachel's throat close.

At this point, Santana announced, her voice strangely muffled, that she needed to go home. Brittany followed.

It was about five minutes later that Rachel put two and two together, and then spent the drive home reassessing everything she'd ever known about or witnessed of the two girls, going right back to elementary school. The patterns of their lives were cast in a different light. Rachel wondered how she could ever possibly have missed it until now. The only thing she didn't know for sure was whether or not they were actually together, as Mercedes might say, making the air quotes with her hands, "like that", or it was something they had not yet come to understand about themselves.

And when a couple of weeks after that, she saw them kissing in the auditorium when they thought they were alone, Rachel knew for sure.

So now Rachel knew. But even though, for some reason she couldn't put her finger on, she wanted to talk about it with Quinn, Rachel didn't tell anybody.

* * *

**MERCEDES JONES**

Mercedes knew, because she'd put it all together herself from countless pieces of evidence, each stored away in the gossipy filing cabinet of her brain.

Mercedes never forgot a good piece of gossip, and she was better than almost anybody in the school at stringing threads together to make a story. 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 = conclusion. It was like a really, really satisfying geometry problem. This look, combined with that comment, combined with the time somebody said XYZ, equals gossip gold. And in this area, at least, Mercedes was the reigning queen.

So far, she had been putting together the Santana/Brittany story (or 'Santittany', as she liked to call it in her head), for almost two years.

For example, Glee club. Just Glee club. It sounded like a big umbrella, but Mercedes was all about the small moments, and Glee was full of them. She saw Santana and Brittany seated next to each other, day after day, pinkies linked. Heads on each other's shoulders. Mercedes didn't know if she would have been on such high alert without the infamous and much discussed _sex isn't dating_ phone call, but she couldn't help seeing it all differently, now. That look. This comment. That smile on Brittany's face. The sidelong glance from Santana to assess Brittany's reactions to anything that happened. The way the choreography just always seemed to end up with them together in some form, be it swaying side by side, or with arms linked, or paired off for a harmony. It all added up, and for a person as attuned to subtext as Mercedes was, it added up to a quite a lot. Except the truth.

Now, Mercedes was as straight as they come. If the Kinsey scale could walk around in human form, Mercedes was a one. She could look at another girl and objectively assess that they were pretty, but that was where it ended. The thought of kissing a girl, loving a girl; those thoughts were as foreign to her as the thought of anybody being a fan of Taylor Swift. (I mean, if white bread could sing, right?) It's not that it was wrong, per se – Mercedes had struggled in the past with reconciling her Christian beliefs with what she knew in her soul to be true. Kurt was her boy. Kurt liked other boys. Kurt wasn't wrong, or deviant, or anything like the Bible said, Therefore, something's not quite right there, thanks a lot, Bible.

So it wasn't like Mercedes was homophobic, far from it. She just wasn't able somehow to invest as much _depth_ in what she saw between Santana and Brittany as what she saw, for example, between Tina and Mike. Or herself and any guy that she liked. If she did, she might have put all the pieces together earlier than she did. As it was, although she knew _something_ was going on, she didn't realise that it was serious enough to be something that either girl had actual feelings about.

Then came the thing at the mall.

Mercedes had been on one of her solo shopping trips. She preferred shopping alone, because then she didn't have to make excuses about why she didn't want to buy whatever it was Kurt was flailing at her, or the dress Tina pointed out in a window. They didn't get it, those two. "Just ask for a larger size," Kurt had grumbled once, apparently not realising that he had in his hands the largest size the store carried. The largest size _most_ stores carried.

No, Mercedes did her clothes-buying on stealth runs, tucked into the back of the 'Larger Ladies' sections, or the few plus-size outlets she could find, scanning the depressing racks of muumuu-esque offerings that were supposed to pass for fashion. She put more effort into appearing effortless in her style than anything else in the world besides her singing. None of the others would ever know what these solo trips cost her emotionally, or how often she came home, fruitless, feeling ugly and cold on the inside and out. When people commented on her outfits, her routine response, "This old thing?" was so frequently used as to become a running joke.

So that's why the last people Mercedes wanted to run into while clothes-shopping were Santana and Brittany; two of the stick-thin, willowy types who could buy, or wear, anything they wanted – and two of the most fashion-conscious people in the school. She just didn't have the soul-space that day. So when she saw Brittany standing outside a changing booth and heard Santana's voice coming from inside it, she ducked back behind a mannequin display and prepared to wait them out. Since they were the only three people in the store, she wasn't able to make a run for it and lose herself in the crowds; there weren't any.

"Show me!" Brittany called out.

"Why don't you come in and see for yourself?" was the sly response.

Mercedes saw Brittany's face fall. "You know I can't do that, San."

Santana's head popped through the curtain. From the way she clutched it to her neck, Mercedes suspected that she wasn't wearing a shirt at all. Her mind started working feverishly. _A + B + C…_

Santana eyed Brittany sourly. "Is this about Wheels again?"

"Yes," Brittany said, her lower lip all bunched up. "I can't help it, Santana, I'm sorry."

"You know, I'm about three seconds from welding a boombox to his chair that plays _Stand Up_ by Ludacris on repeat."

Brittany's lower lip disappeared and she gave a deep sigh.

A briefly regretful expression flitted across Santana's face. "Okay, that was low. But Britt…" Her head disappeared behind the curtain, and there came the sounds of clothes being flung about. "We already talked about this," - Santana's voice was muffled at first, but cleared as she emerged from the booth, pulling a grey tank top over her head – "and I thought you understood."

Brittany tilted her head. "I thought so too, but then when I went home my Dad was fixing the stereo and he started talking about male jacks and female jacks and how they joined together and even though it wasn't plumbing and stuff it made me think about whether things fit."

Mercedes took in the suddenly wary, slightly panicked look on Santana's face.

"And?" Santana asked, carefully.

"We fit, San, you and me," Brittany said, softly putting a hand on Santana's arm, which was promptly shaken off. "We do. But now I think maybe only one jack fits at a time, and maybe it doesn't matter whether they're male or female or whatever, but if you wanna hear music you can only have one jack. And," she finished, reaching out for Santana again, who took a step back from her with a face like thunder, "you know I love Artie's voice too."

Mercedes rapidly went into overload. Jacks? Music? _Fitting?_ This was all too much. This was like the _sex isn't dating phone call_ in triplicate and surround sound. This was _a-_ wait for it- _mazing._

Santana took a deep breath and studied the floor for a moment. Brittany looked like someone had punched her puppy in the face.

Suddenly, Santana reached for her bag and pulled out her iPod. "I wanna show you something, Britt." She dug around deeper into her bag and came out with something white coiled in her hand, and held it out to Brittany. "Headphone splitters."

Brittany took them, examined them closely.

Santana leant over. "See? One jack goes into the iPod and then you can put two pairs of headphones into it."

Brittany bit off a grin. "So two people can listen to the music?"

Santana nodded. "One song, two jacks."

Brittany smiled to herself and closed her hand around the splitters. "Am I the song?"

Mercedes couldn't believe the expression that crossed Santana's face at that moment. She'd never, ever seen anything like it. It was like a piece of iron had suddenly been turned into marshmallow.

"Britt," Santana said softly, "you're the whole choir."

Brittany reached out and grabbed Santana's hand, and for a moment, the two girls said nothing, just looked at each other, eyes locked.

Oddly, with everything Mercedes had just heard and witnessed, it was this look, this moment, that made her suddenly feel guilty about eavesdropping for the first time. She was intruding. This was never, ever meant to be seen by anyone else. Mercedes imagined for a moment that Santana would look up and see her, and the plummeting swoop in her stomach told her everything she needed to know. She needed to leave. This was a moment she shouldn't have seen.

Luckily, Brittany broke the moment, her cheeks slightly pink. "Jacks. Plumbing. You're so smart."

Santana nodded judiciously, clearly relieved, like it was too much, too heavy. "There is very little I don't know about home appliances," she said in a fake-wise tone, and Brittany laughed.

"You have no idea how much better I feel," Brittany told her, before adding: "Even though I totally know what you're doing."

Santana blinked innocently.

"I'm not stupid, Santana."

Santana's face softened. "No. No, you definitely are not."

"Come on, headphone splitters?"

Santana laughed guiltily. "What can I say? You inspire me to gets my evil on. You're like L'Oreal, babe."

"How?"

"Worth it."

Brittany glowed, and Santana glowed back, and Mercedes rolled her eyes.

"So I think I wanna see what you were wearing after all," Brittany said, a smirk on her lips.

Santana grinned evilly, and pulled her into the booth.

Mercedes took her shot, and made her escape. She was so totally, utterly full to the brim with stellar, satisfying gossip that she treated herself to a Hot Topic shirt a size too small ("I'll fit into it one day") and a triple mocha whip frappuccino with fudge on the way out of the mall.

It had been a good day's hunting after all. But Mercedes knew that this time, there was a difference, and as she shut her car door, she looked at the red blinking lights on the dash, and told herself it would be a cold day in hell before she'd give away the spoils.

So, Mercedes knew, and if she occasionally, in heated moments, thought about using the knowledge as a weapon if Santana ever pushed her too far, well, that was just Mercedes.

She never did.

* * *

**Next chapter: Karofsky and Lauren Zizes**

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shameless self-reference/plug: The kiss Rachel witnessed and the West Side Story rehearsals are the subject of another story of mine, _Front Row, Baby_. Just in case anyone was curious and would like to read what Rachel saw, as it were.


	5. Karofsky and Lauren Zizes

**DAVID KAROFSKY**

Even though Karofsky already knew Santana's secret, he was the first - and only - person Santana told about Brittany out loud.

He was dropping her home after the junior prom, both of them pale and still. Since they got into the car, they had said nothing besides _Do you want music on?_ and _Nah._

They sat in silence in Santana's driveway for a few minutes, the car idling quietly, neither knowing quite what to say, but knowing the ruse of the 'beard' was over, and thus their tentative, awkward time spent together. Karofsky's crown lay on the back seat. Both of them wanted to say thank you to each other. Neither of them did. Neither of them could.

With an indistinct, guttural sound, Santana suddenly leant over, and before Karofsky knew it, she was kissing him. Instinct kicked in and he kissed her back. Within a minute, she had wrenched her red prom dress up to her knees, clambered over the console and was sitting on him, her hands wrapped behind his head, eyes screwed closed.

Karofsky pulled free long enough to manage, "Wait, what are you d-"

"I don't wanna be gay," she muttered furiously against his mouth. "I _don't._ Do you?"

"No, but-"

"So maybe we're not. We don't have to be. Maybe it's not for sure." There was a desperate, frantic sheen in her eyes that Karofsky had never seen before, and it scared the hell out of him. "Just shut up, okay? Shut up." She grabbed his face and resumed kissing him with added intensity, her teeth bruising his bottom lip.

Karofsky could feel that her cheeks were damp – sweat? Tears? He didn't know. He didn't know what to do with his hands, so they dangled limply by his sides, brushing against Santana's hips. He didn't know what to do, period. Santana was hot, smoking hot – this shouldn't feel so ... wrong. But it did.

The kiss broke, both of them breathing heavily. They stared at each other, and when Santana reached up to touch her mouth, Karofsky saw that her fingers were trembling.

She sat back, examined his face carefully, and drew in a shaky breath. "Goddammit," she whispered, not to Karofsky. "God _dammit."_

Karofsky knew exactly what she meant.

There was a short stillness, neither knowing where to look, before Santana clambered off him, all her earlier fire gone. Just awkward elbows, a knee striking the dash and a muttered apology. She sank haphazardly back into the passenger seat, and they resumed the silence, both a little dazed.

Finally, Santana mumbled something so indistinctly that Karofsky had to say, "What?"

"She danced with a girl."

Karofsky furrowed his brow. "Who?"

"Brittany," Santana said, in the smallest voice he'd ever heard her use. "She slow-danced with a girl."

Karofsky's expression cleared. _Ah._

Santana's breathing changed, snagged, like something was trying to kick its way from deep inside her. "She danced with a girl. And it w-wasn't me. And nobody even _cared,_ they didn't even look at her t-twice, and … and…" Something seemed to break in her throat. "Jesus, w-why've I…"

"Why what?" Karofsky asked quietly.

"Why've I gotta be s-such a … goddamn fuh-fucking _coward_?"

Karofsky sat, stunned, as Santana buried her face in her hands and began sobbing. Karofsky had never seen Santana - seen _anyone -_ cry like this, like coals were being wrenched out of her stomach, one by burning one. After a few minutes, he reached out, hesitantly, and patted her on the shoulder.

She flinched away. " _Don't_."

"Sorry."

"I don't need your pity." Her eyes were flashing. "Not yours _. God._ "

That stung. "Okay."

They sat in rigid silence for a while, before Santana suddenly said, voice thick with swallowed tears, "I'm in love with her." Karofsky risked a sidelong glance. She was staring at him fiercely. "I'm in love with Brittany."

Karofsky smiled gently, and shrugged. "I know she doesn't like me, but … Britt's pretty awesome," he said.

There were spots of high colour in Santana's cheeks, and her shoulders were shaking. "I've never said that out loud to anyone. Except her. And…"

Karofsky took her hand, and this time she didn't flinch.

"…and she didn't … didn't. But I'm still... And I don't know how … to … not be."

Karofsky swallowed the lump that suddenly appeared in his throat.

Santana looked at him, and Karofsky just waited for whatever it was she was trying to get out. Eventually, she managed, hoarsely, "I'm sorry I threatened to tell everyone about you. I won't."

Karofsky nodded. "I know."

Santana stopped, mouth working soundlessly. Then: "But you're an asshole, y'know."

Karofsky's eyes were watering. "I know that too," he said, meaning it.

They lapsed into silence again.

Karofsky's head was in a whirl. He wanted Santana to get out of his car. He didn't want Santana to get out of his car. He wanted to confess everything to her, the way she'd just done. He wanted to smack her in the face for being able to say out loud the words that grew into abysses in his chest and burned smoking holes in his throat.

"I don't know how to be this person," Santana said, suddenly. Karofsky looked at her. "I had everything worked out for next year. I was gonna spend senior year as total HBIC. Run the Cheerios, kick Nationals in the ass – twice. Get more Glee solos. Find the right guy."

"Be homecoming queen?" Karofsky asked, the image of Santana with a gold crown and a smile bigger than Ohio rising in his mind.

She laughed, bitterly. "Yeah, be goddamn homecoming queen. I don't know, go to college or something. Maybe be … a voice major, or write songs and stuff. I honestly thought I could do it." She paused, bit her lip, stared out the window, couldn't look at Karofsky. "And now I don't even know how to get to the end of the week without crying like a little bitch every night." On her arm, she was tracing small patterns again and again, a soft scratching at the veins, like she wanted to let out whatever was running through them. "I just … don't know how to be … _this_."

Karofsky sighed, bleakly. "You think I've got it worked out?"

Santana raised a withering eyebrow at him. "Oh, hell no, you're even more pathetic than me. You're so far in the closet that if you bend over you'll find your grandpa's old Hush Puppies and a first edition copy of _Rubyfruit Jungle_."

Karofsky couldn't help but feel safer with this version of Santana, however acid her tongue or apt her analogy. He didn't know what to do with thoughtful Santana, or sad Santana, or sexy Santana, or god forbid, sobbing Santana. They were so foreign to him that it was like a different girl was in the car. Snarky Santana? Familiar ground.

They looked at each other, both as close to smiles as they were going to get that night.

Karofsky reached into the back seat and picked up the Prom King crown. He held it out to Santana, who looked at him quizzically. "Here," he said. "Maybe you won't be homecoming queen, but you deserve this more than I do."

Santana stared at him for a moment, and then took the crown, turning it over and over in her hands. She took a deep breath. "I thought I needed one of these."

Karofsky just waited.

Santana scrubbed at her eyes, and her voice went scratchy again. "But now I'm pretty sure I just need her."

She kissed him briefly, quickly, on the cheek and got out of the car without another word, taking the crown with her.

Karofsky watched until she was inside her house, and then drove away.

Later that night when he thought about how brave she'd been to say the words _I'm in love with Brittany_ out loud, even if it was only in a dark car with a guy whose secrets she held hostage, Karofsky was sick with shame at his own fear and sick about Kurt, and sick about everything he'd ever said and done, and sick with wanting to be different and sick with wishing he could just live somebody else's life now, and spent an hour weeping into his pillow - his secret running around and around in his head with scorched feet.

David knew, and he knew better than anyone else not to tell.

* * *

**LAUREN ZIZES**

Lauren Zizes knew because Lauren Zizes could smell fear. And the Lopez chick went around with words like knives, but smelled more frightened than a chihuahua down a drainpipe.

Lauren Zizes had spent her whole life as an outspoken fat girl in America. Lauren Zizes knew fear. And the only way Lauren Zizes overcame that fear was to be the biggest, meanest, toughest, most unapologetic, self-loving bitch on the face of the planet.

And then she met Santana Lopez, and knew her for one of her own. Lauren couldn't figure out what Lopez was so afraid of, so she made it her mission to find out.

Was it losing something? Lopez seemed to have a penchant for trying to take things. Things that didn't belong to her, if the never-ending supply of brand-name clothes that she paraded around in were any clue. People that didn't belong to her – Finn, Sam, Puck, anybody she decided that she wanted. Lauren wondered why Santana never seemed to want anything unless it wasn't hers. How could you be afraid of losing something or someone if you only ever wanted stuff you didn't own or shouldn't have? So it wasn't that.

And it couldn't be losing status, because even with the millstone of Glee around her neck, even after she quit the Cheerios, Santana was still one of the undisputed top bitches at McKinley. When she hit the hallways with _that_ expression on her face, people scattered in front of her like locusts in a windstorm. If Lauren didn't dislike her so much, she might have been impressed. No, people were still in awe of Santana Lopez. So it couldn't be that.

Failing school, even though she pretended not to care about it? Nah. Lauren did some light evening hacking, and discovered that Santana maintained a perfectly respectable 3.6 GPA. Nothing that was going to get her into the Ivy League, maybe not even with the Cheerios Nationals wins, but enough for pretty much any other college that wanted another generic cheerleading bitch. So it wasn't that, either.

Was it about losing Puckerman? The fight over who got Puck had burned out pretty quickly, especially after Lauren had smacked the girl's annoying ass six ways from Sunday. Lauren still chuckled whenever she thought about the look on Lopez's face as she'd hit the lockers and bounced … and bounced again. Who knew they made 'em so springy in Lima Heights? It wasn't too long before Lopez had given up on that fine man altogether. Even though Lauren hadn't known Santana very long, she knew it had been a decisive victory; Santana didn't give up, and she certainly didn't lose.

Their interactions since the fight had mostly been of the name-calling variety, but if it got too scathing, all Lauren had to do was casually raise a hand and examine her nails, and suddenly Lopez's spirit didn't seem to be in it any more. Lauren couldn't remember the last time she'd walked the halls to an unprovoked cry of, "LAND, HO!" or, "Hey Zizes, the auditions for _Free Willy_ are that way. Take Finn with you, he needs help when he's out of water." And Santana had completely stopped flirting with Puck. In fact, she seemed to be avoiding him. So it wasn't Puck, either.

Was it Lauren herself? Lauren wasn't scared of Santana, and that put her in a class of three people total, one of whom was Brittany, and the other of whom was the lunch lady who had been at the school for fifty years, could stare down a charging buffalo, and whom even Santana called 'ma'am' in a respectful tone of voice. The lunch lady, Lauren got. Brittany, not so much.

If there was ever a target begging to be repeatedly hit, Brittany Pierce was it. Lauren couldn't understand why everyone was so protective of the freakin' weirdo, or why she seemed to be spared the eye of Lopez's particular vicious hurricane. Brittany's vagueness and good-natured, well, _everything,_ annoyed the living shit out of Lauren. But it appeared to be social suicide to say so, and even Lauren Zizes had a healthy sense of self-preservation. Brittany, though? UGH. Rainbows and kittens and freakin' unicorns and sunshine and cupcakes all wrapped up in a sleepy kind of goofiness that made Lauren's skin itch. She didn't know why Lopez kept her around.

Lauren figured that even tough bitches needed a sidekick, though. She'd vaguely considered getting one herself, but hadn't yet come across anyone she thought could stomach her awesomeness. If the Berry girl didn't have a shriek like cut glass and an ego the size of the sun, she might have been whipped into a good lapdog, but Lauren knew better than to try and change the tides on a chick like that. Rachel was satisfyingly terrified of Lauren, though, as she was of Santana. Everyone was. One narrow-eyed look from Lopez and people's mouths closed, their eyes shifted aside, their snappy retorts died in the air. That's because none of them could see the fear Lauren saw. Lauren – who stood there, took it, gave it back and then some. Maybe Lopez wasn't used to it? Maybe that was what scared her? But it couldn't be Lauren. Lopez had smelled of electric, coppery terror from before they'd even met, so whatever it was, it was older than their acquaintance.

No, Lauren couldn't figure out where the fear came from. And so it went on, passing in the hallways, taking half-assed pot-shots at each other, Lauren never getting closer to the source of the fear.

"Double-wide," Santana nodded one day, Brittany at her side, the ever-faithful shadow.

"Lucky legs," Lauren replied, caustically.

Santana paused, confused. "Oh, come on now, Crisco Kid, you can do better than that."

"Lucky they don't snap off and go up your _ass_ ," Lauren finished, a glint in her eye.

Beside Santana, Brittany burst out laughing. Santana turned to her with a slight hurt look. "No, no, it's because I always used to feel lucky about your legs too!" Brittany managed, through her mirth.

Santana immediately reddened for no reason Lauren could understand. " _Britt_."

"Because they're _so_ totally awesome!" Brittany added, happily.

Santana, whose fear-smell had just spiked by about ten thousand degrees, grabbed a still-giggling Brittany's hand and dragged her away without a backward look.

Lauren, left behind with a mildly puzzled frown, had no idea what had just happened. Brittany was dumb. That wasn't even one of her best zingers. She was just getting started. She had a whole bit saved up about Dita Von Teese that she'd been sitting on for weeks.

Not long after that came the race for Prom Queen, and the Quinn/Lucy Fabray incident. Lauren hated to admit it, but there were times when even she went too far in her quest for total domination. The look on Quinn's face as she tore through the hallways, the trickles of sniggers and whispers following her – that was too much even for Lauren Zizes. She was assailed with one of the most unfamiliar feelings she'd ever experienced – guilt. And it was eating her insides like a sandstorm. She felt small, and angry, and worst of all, for the first time in a long time, she felt _ugly._

So when she walked into the library and was greeted by the sight of Santana draped casually over a table with her head on a history book, and Brittany draped casually over that with her head on a Santana, both of them looking sleepy-eyed and smiley, and – she hated to admit it – impossibly beautiful in that way Lauren told herself at night she never needed to be, well, something about the peaceful little scene just bugged the actual fuck out of Lauren Zizes.

"Hey, ladies," she called out. "Standing, walking and breathing all at the same time too much for us today?"

Santana didn't even raise her head. "I would, but it's like all the air was just sucked from the room. Like a strange, wandering planet replaced it with a huge gravitational pull. Can you back up, Tatooine? You're messing with my extensions."

Brittany giggled drowsily, and Santana smiled at her, and _fucking_ Brittany, and Lauren was abruptly angrier than ever.

"Oh, you like space analogies, Lopez?" she barked, cold. "How about the total waste of it lying all over you? Ever thought to tell your little girlfriend that space abhors a vacuum? She'd better be careful, or one day her whole head'll just crumple into itself like a soufflé."

Santana was on her feet faster than Lauren could blink, Brittany shoved gracelessly aside, sprawling across the table with a shocked look.

"What did you call her?" Santana growled, her eyes glittering.

"I think you heard me loud and clear, Frida," Lauren snapped back.

Brittany stood, too. "Santana, it's oka-" she began, before Santana cut her off, poking a finger in Lauren's chest like a needle.

" _She is_ _ **not**_ _my girlfriend,"_ Santana hissed.

And then even though nobody moved, everything happened at once.

Lauren saw Brittany's face blanch, and Santana close her eyes suddenly, and the people at the next table look over, and Brittany's eyes grew wide and blank looking, and Santana clenched her fists, and the fear smell drove through the roof, and then Brittany kind of grabbed for her books on the table only she missed most of them and stumbled away anyway, and Santana opened her eyes and they looked like black holes and for a second, Lauren felt like her face had been slapped from the ozone smell of terror in the air, and all of a sudden she finally understood what it was and where it came from, and _oh, shit_.

Santana wheeled around, watched Brittany's retreating back, with a face like she'd just woken up from a childhood nightmare. "Bri-" she started to say, before the name choked in her throat. "I'm sor-" The words were swallowed again, and Lauren realised that Santana couldn't say anything she wanted to say without giving herself away, stripping herself bare.

Brittany disappeared through the swinging doors, and Santana sat shakily down at the table, her face already assuming the practiced _I-don't-give-a-fuck_ cool stare that Lauren knew well. But underneath the table, just within Lauren's eye line, her hands were twisting into themselves over and over again, forming knots, her knuckles as white as snow.

Lauren didn't know what to say. But Santana did.

"Start walking, Zizes," she said, sibilant. Dangerous. And nothing else. Lauren felt her stomach flip with the intensity of expression on Santana's face, the muscle jumping in her cheek, the coppery smell in the air.

Lauren walked.

And suddenly, while walking, all of her pent-up hostility towards Santana Lopez simply disappeared. Lauren found, with a gut-wrenching jolt of understanding, that she didn't have the stomach for it after all. There was something kind of … sad about Santana's miserable secret. Something that humanised her in a way Lauren wasn't quite ready to deal with and didn't have precedence for.

No, at the same time Lauren Zizes figured out what Santana was afraid of, she'd just learned her lesson about using secrets against people. So she didn't tell anyone. Not even Puck.

The next time she passed Santana in the hall, Santana merely looked over at her and nodded. Lauren raised her chin briefly in response. The girl salute. Santana shot her a half-smile and carried on. It felt right. Lauren felt right.

Tough scared bitches gotta stick together, yo.

* * *

**Next chapter: Puck and Sugar**


	6. Puck and Sugar

**NOAH PUCKERMAN**

Puck knew, for two reasons. One, because in his 18 years on the planet, Puck had slept with at least 80 women and he knew a thing or two about sex. Two, because of the time Santana went totally apeshit on him at Keely McLaren's party.

Puck knew he wasn't the brightest guy in the world. Hell, he knew was barely even the brightest guy in a room with, like, three guys in it. But everyone's got a gift, and Puck's gift was a way with the ladies. He figured that if that meant he missed out on a few other kinds of things, like an education and a future and stuff, then it was a fair trade. Yes, the Puckasaurus certainly had that going for him. And in his single-minded conquest to make every hot lady in the school his (for a night, at least), there was really only one (until he finally landed Quinn Fabray), that he kept coming back to.

Santana Lopez.

Santana and Puck had first hooked up early in freshman year. Puck, still finding his place as the lethal weapon he was destined to become, couldn't believe his luck when smoking hot Santana Lopez sashayed up to him at one of the senior keggers they had been permitted entrance to - her because of her newly-gained place on the Cheerios and him because he'd sold weed to the host - ran a hand over his mohawk, and without a word, dragged him off to one of the upstairs bedrooms. It was the least amount of groundwork he'd ever had to put in.

If he had been more attentive, he might have noticed the gaggle of cheerleaders, including the captain, Keely McLaren, who were hovering at the base of the stairs. They were watching and smirking in a way people do when they've given instructions they expected to be followed. Puck didn't notice. Nor did he notice, or care, that Santana barely said a word to him – not during, not after, and not until the next party she decided to target him at.

It was fine by Puck. There were other girls to be chased in the interim, including Brittany, who, _damn_ could she move, but that Puck suspected was even dumber than him, and Quinn Fabray, who remained flirty, but frustratingly aloof in a way that made Puck want to pull his own face off.

Santana was okay, Puck guessed. Once they'd hooked up a couple of times across freshman year, she found her voice, and _man,_ was it a voice. Puck learned quite quickly that if Santana didn't like something, he was going to hear about it. And if he said something stupid, he was going to hear about it. And pretty much if he said anything at all, he was gonna hear about it. But the girl was _fine._

So after the first three months or so, during which their hook-ups remained both silent, and party-based, Puck was pretty much at Santana's mercy. He came when she called, he picked her up when she wanted a ride, he slept with her on the few occasions she let him, and he left when she told him to. He escorted her to the freshman winter dance, he went to her Cheerios competitions (eye candy!) and she seemed to want him to do all those things. But once, he made the mistake of referring to her as his _girlfriend._ That cost him a swollen left nut.

Puck knew better than to look a gift hottie in the mouth, so he took it, because what he got in return was totally worth it. She never complained when he hooked up with other chicks, as long as he was there when she beckoned. Sometimes, she seemed to get a perverse pleasure in waiting until he had his tongue down some girl's throat (usually Brittany's) before draping herself seductively in a doorway and giving him the smoky look he'd come to recognise as, " _Here, boy_."

He always obeyed.

Okay. So, not his girlfriend. That was fine. Puckasaurus needs and wants no girlfriend. Puckasaurus is a stud, a MILF-hunter, a sex gazelle roaming the plains of an African savannah littered with hotties, social climbers, his teammate's moms, and occasional random desperates. Puck didn't need a steady girl. But there was nothing steady about Santana. And perhaps that's why she intrigued him.

There was one thing about Santana, though, that totally drove Puck crazy.

She faked it. Every time. Puck had slept with enough women to know the difference.

Puck never said anything, of course – what guy wants to draw attention to something like _that?_ But it bugged the shit out of him. What was he doing wrong? Why did she need to fake anything? The Puckster had a long record of treating the ladies right _and_ knowing his way around the curves, so he couldn't figure out what he wasn't nailing, so to speak.

It served to make him double his efforts, which served to make Santana even pissier at him – "Get _off_ of me, we're not running an Olympic marathon, _god,_ the sprints are fine. Anyways, I'm bored" – which in turn made Puck even more determined to get Santana to unwind enough to, uh, get all the way there. So to speak.

It became something of an obsession with him, and Santana remained maddeningly impassive about it. But their trysts were rarer now, so Puck usually began most parties with his sights set elsewhere, knowing that if Santana wanted him, she'd let him know.

One night, in the first week of sophomore year, they were at Keely McLaren's house, and Puck had been making (unsuccessful) moves on Quinn Fabray all night. Quinn seemed to have zoned in on Puck's best friend instead, Finn. Puck rated Finn pretty highly, as far as dudes go, but he didn't think Finn had any game. Instead, Finn had that kind of doofy harmless thing going on that made girls want to mother him and do his laundry and shit. Puck knew Finn was a virgin, but had long since gotten over trying to get him to do anything about it.

So on this night, Puck had given up on Quinn, and was sandwiched on the sofa with Santana on his right and Brittany on his left, who were both drunk enough to be swaying a little, and playing some kind of weird girly-shit pattycake hand game across his lap like a pair of kids. Puck leered down at them.

"Any chance you want to lower those hands about six inches, ladies?"

Brittany rolled her eyes and Santana narrowed hers. "Not if you want to keep your four inches," she retorted, and Brittany giggled.

Puck was about to protest - he was way better off than four inches and he knew because he'd measured himself just that morning, but it was at this point that someone's voice was raised. "Hey! Hey, you guys! TO THE-"

And Santana suddenly dove across Puck like she'd been shot out of a cannon.

About the middle of freshman year, a new game had started spreading through the party circuit like wildfire. It was called _To The Left_ , and whenever anyone bellowed those three words loud enough to be heard over the music, you had to stop what you were doing and kiss the person on your left side. You couldn't change places and you couldn't back out. If you were unlucky enough to be next to some ugly dude, well that was the hand you were dealt, and you had to suck it up. And if you were on a sofa or between people in any way, then you got kissed _and_ had to do some kissing. Puck, totally secure in his sexuality, had frenched a male cheerleader and three guys from the football team this way, unembarrassed, and totally scathing of those who were.

"It's only gross if you're a hommafone or whatever, and you're only that if you're a closet fag," he once explained to a protesting Karofsky, before grabbing his face and planting one on him, amid wolf-whistles and cheering. Karofsky had shoved Puck hard enough to send him halfway across the room, and stalked away without a backward look.

On this occasion, the word "LEFT" hadn't even finished being shouted when Santana landed between him and Brittany so quickly that Puck was spinning. Brittany smiled. Santana smirked. Puck, realising what she'd done, and therefore what he was about to see, grinned.

First, he leaned over and kissed Santana, who was now on his left, but she barely gave him the time of day before disconnecting her lips and turning to Brittany. Brittany's hands were tangled in her friend's, and Puck looked down and noticed that Santana was playing with Brittany's fingers, idly, like she didn't even know what she was doing.

Puck leaned back, stretched his arms along the back of the sofa, and smiled like a Cheshire cat. "This," he declared loftily, "is the greatest day of my life."

"Shut it, Puckerman," Santana slurred, and leaned into Brittany, who closed her eyes into the kiss with a grin.

Puck was elated. Two of the hottest girls in school. Were kissing. Right next to him. Right now. And thirty seconds later, they were still kissing. And thirty seconds after that as well. Puck felt himself grow pleasurably warm - not only from the joint he'd just shared with the two girls - and he shifted on the sofa to get a better view. Around the room, several other people, their kissing duties done with, had started to watch and cheer them on. This seemed to spur the two girls to greater heights – Brittany slipped a hand into Santana's hair, and Santana responded by deepening the kiss even further. Across the room, Quinn was watching with an unreadable face and Finn's mouth was hanging open.

Puck was in raptures. This was _awesome._ This was awesomer even than the time he slept with Miss Kruger, his biology teacher. Brittany let out a small moan, Santana pressed into her harder, and Puck nearly exploded in his seat.

Keely McLaren, current head cheerleader, suddenly appeared in the living room, all blonde hair and steely eyes, her gaze fixed on Santana and Brittany with a weird expression on her face.

"Lopez!" she barked. The cheering died immediately, and Santana pulled away from Brittany with a jolt, her face flooding with colour. Brittany leant hazily back on the sofa, a little smile playing across her lips, her hands still tangled with Santana's. Not for long, though.

"Getting your dyke on, Santana?" Keely asked. "Should I start calling you Lo _lez_ from now on?"

There was a smattering of snickers, and Santana's hands jerked from Brittany's like they were on fire. Brittany's face fell. "Hell no," she said immediately, with what sounded to Puck like a forced laugh. "She was on my left, is all." She threaded an arm through Puck's, ran the other up over the back of the sofa and started playing with his mohawk. "Just getting warmed up."

Puck was a little confused. He distinctly remembered hearing that Santana and Keely had kissed at the last party, because he was totally pissed that he hadn't been in the room at the time. So what was with McLaren's 'tude? Not that, with Santana's hand now lazily trailing up and down his arm, he minded too much.

Keely seemed to subside a little. "Okay, then," she said. "Just keep it all PG unless you're going upstairs." She paused, and there was a challenge in her voice when she said, "You _will_ be going upstairs, I take it?"

Santana was on her feet before the sentence was finished, jerking Puck upright to stand next to her. Her grip on his arm was like a vice. She picked up a glass of straight vodka that was on the coffee table in front of them and slammed it down in one mouthful. "If you hadn't barged in," she said to Keely, coldly, "we'd be up there already. Come on, Puckerman."

Brittany looked up from her now-lonely position on the couch. "Santana?" she asked, her voice thick with beer, wine coolers, and too much pot.

Santana didn't even look back. "Later, Britt."

As Puck was dragged to the stairs, he glanced back just in time to see a weirdly sad look from Quinn, and a member of the football team settle next to Brittany on the sofa and hand her an overflowing cup of something nasty-looking. The smile on his face was kinda nasty-looking, too, although since Quinn and Finn were in the room, Puck thought Britt would probably be fine. He took a moment to briefly regret that she wasn't accompanying them upstairs, and the resulting mental picture _that_ put in his head drove everything else away in a red haze.

Santana jumped him the second the bedroom door was shut, methodically peeling off his shirt with one hand while unbuckling his belt with the other. Even in his buzzed state, Puck realised there was something cold about the way she was approaching the whole thing. Like it was … a business deal and he was a transaction she had to make or an account she needed to close.

Fifteen minutes later, he was doing his best to keep her with him, keep things on track for a home goal, and not succeeding in the slightest, when a knock came on the bedroom door.

"Santana?" It was Brittany's voice. "San, are you in there?"

And suddenly, Santana came alive underneath him. Puck looked down, surprised, as she unexpectedly gripped his back in a way she'd never done before.

"Santana," floated from outside the room. "I need you, what are you doing?"

Santana's eyes were closed. Puck had never seen that before. Usually, she just studied the ceiling or the walls with a slightly bored expression, but this time her eyes were screwed shut, and it sounded like she was muttering something under her breath.

"What?" Puck asked, breathlessly.

Her hand immediately slapped over his mouth. "Shut up, just don't," she managed, her voice catching. "Don't."

" _Santana."_ Brittany's voice was more insistent now, and Puck was shocked at the way Santana abruptly responded to him. He buried his face in her neck and for once, she didn't push him away. "Santana, lemme in," Brittany persisted, slurring. "They're being all creepy downstairs now, and I don't like it here without you."

Santana's hands went to her face, and her head turned to the side.

Brittany called out again. "I wanna be with you, okay, San? I just want you."

Beneath him, Santana stiffened suddenly, and let out a smothered gasp, her nails raking his shoulders. Puck was elated. Did she...?

"Did you just...?" he asked her, carefully.

She pushed him off with a force he couldn't believe coming from someone so small. "Yeah, so?"

A grin spread over Puck's face. Before he could say anything, Santana completely uncurled from under him and rolled onto her side, one hand coming up to cover her eyes. Before it completely descended, Puck caught the unmistakable shine of tears.

Now, say what you want about Puck. He was a pig, yes. He was single-minded in his sexual conquests, yes. But he wasn't _much_ of a bad guy underneath all that, and seeing Santana looking like that, so blank and miserable, however much she wanted to hide it, woke all of his dormant protective instincts.

"Hey," he mumbled softly, his hand coming over to rest on her side. "Hey, what's wrong?"

Santana curled even more tightly into herself. "Nothing."

"Like hell," Puck said, trying to tug her to face him again. "What's wrong, babe? Did I hurt you?"

"No. Nothing. Don't call me that." Santana pulled away, yanked the sheet up to cover herself completely, shutting him off. "Nothing's wrong, I'm just drunk. And high. Or something. Go away, all right?" Her eyes were dry now. Puck wondered if he'd been seeing things.

Puck lay back and propped himself up on one elbow, regarding her cautiously. From the corner of his eye, Puck saw the shadow under the door shift, move, and the knock began again.

"Santana," came a small, slurred voice. "Are you still even here? Are you ever going to find me?"

Santana jerked a little, and Puck saw her swallow convulsively.

Frustrated, Puck snapped at the door, "Britt, just give us a minute, okay?"

Santana immediately whirled on him, her eyes like lances even in the half-light. "Us? Us? Don't include me in your 'us'. Give _yourself_ a minute, Puckerman, that's all it takes with you anyway!"

"Whoa!" he protested. "What'd I do?"

Santana laughed, bitterly. "Nothing I couldn't have done better by myself, believe me. Now can you please get out?

"But..."

"Look, I'm fine, it's fine, you were fine, just ... leave me alone, okay?"

Puck stared, his mind in overdrive. He'd finally managed to get her all the way home, for actual real this time, and she was telling him to get out. Again. Girls, man. Just … _girls._ When Santana pushed the covers back, stepped out of the bed and began to dress, roughly, her breath coming in small hitches, Puck decided to do the same, if only because there was nothing more pathetic than a naked guy with blue balls all alone in a room at a party. Meanwhile, the soft knocking went on and on.

He beat her to the punch by a long way, buckling his belt while she was still finding her bra, and without saying anything headed for the door. When he pushed it open, Brittany slumped into the hall immediately. She'd been sitting on the floor, leaning against the door, one hand still raised as if to keep knocking.

"Hey, Puck," she slurred unsteadily, looking up at him from the flat of her back. "Is my … is Santana in there?"

"Yeah," he told her roughly, reaching down and helping her sit up.

As he did so, her arms slid about his neck, and suddenly Puck was a lot more interested.

"Is she mad at me?" Brittany mumbled, dimly.

Puck gathered her in. "Nah, I think she's mad at me."

Brittany's face was very close to his, now, and Puck had to stop himself from thinking what he was thinking. Hell, no he didn't. He was a dude. Dudes think that stuff. It's what dudes do.

"Is it cos you're a boy?" Brittany asked, and Puck suddenly wondered. _Is it?_

That's all he had time for, before Brittany announced, "You smell like Santana," and kissed him, and he responded with an eagerness he couldn't believe. This night was getting better and better. Brittany shifted, and crawled into his lap.

"You taste like Santana, too," Brittany told him, fuzzily. "Is she here?" Puck slumped against the doorframe, and Brittany curled against him, clasping her hands behind his head and tilting her own, the better to attack his lips again.

And suddenly, not in the good way, Puck saw stars.

A hand smacked him right across the face – the part that wasn't attached to Brittany – and he reeled as first Brittany was dragged off him, and then a fist smashed into his nose. He could feel the swell beginning almost immediately.

"What the _fuck,_ Puckerman?" Santana shouted, right into his face. "Don't _touch_ her!"

"Hey!" Puck protested, rubbing his head, "she started it!"

Brittany looked up, sleepily, and her face began to shine. "You found me," she said dreamily, and Santana's attention switched to her briefly. Puck saw an answering smile begin on Santana's face. Fuck _that._

"Dude, you've like, broken my nose!" he yelled at her.

Santana swung around on him again, all warmth disappearing. "You kissed her!"

"She kissed me!"

"Look at her!" Santana howled at him. "What kind of asshole are you, anyway? She's drunk and high!"

Another fist hit him, and another, until all Puck could do was close his hands over his head against the blows. "So am I! So are you! _Stop_ it!"

" _¡Vete a la chingada! Pinche idiota!"_

"Hey, if you wanted a threesome or whatever, all you hadda do was say so!"

"Are you fucking _kidding_ me? _Yo mataria tu!_ "

A hallway vase shattered over his head, and Puck felt warmth spread behind his right ear. Blood. " _JESUS,_ Santana!" he roared, striking out blindly. Something else crashed into his arm, then his side, as Santana continued to rant in unintelligible Spanish, her voice cracking from the strain.

Puck managed to make it a few feet away before he looked up. Santana was looming over him, her shirt only half-buttoned, her breath coming in strange ragged gasps, her eyes wild. She raised one hand to hit him again, and suddenly, from behind her, Brittany took the other one in both of hers.

It was weird, what happened then. It was like all the air rushed out of Santana with a strange, whooshing sound. She sat down on the carpet, legs splaying from under her like a colt. Brittany crawled up behind her and buried her face into the junction of Santana's neck and shoulder, making a soothing sound, almost cat-like. Santana closed her eyes and Brittany wrapped an arm around her from behind.

Puck took his chance and scooted back a few more feet, his head pounding, the weed and the pain from his nose making him feel like he had to reach for his thoughts through a blanket, or that his brain was wrapped in cotton wool. He noted the small stool lying next to him, realised that's what the second crash had been, and had a second to reflect that it probably wasn't helping his clarity.

Behind Santana, Quinn appeared at the top of the stairs. She took one look at the mess, the two girls, and the cowering Puck, and shouted, "WHAT THE HELL, PUCKERMAN?"

That was it. Puck leapt to his feet. "Why is it always me?" he shouted back. "I didn't do _shit,_ and she attacked me like a crazy person! Britt kissed me first, I just kissed her back, that's all!"

Quinn ignored him, crouched next to Santana and Brittany. Santana's eyes were still closed, Brittany was still humming something shadowy and soft into her ear. Quinn looked up at Puck, and the expression on her face scared the shit out of him. "Go away, Noah," she said, her mouth a thin line. "Just get out of here."

"I didn't-" he began, but Santana cut him off.

"I'm sorry I hit you," she said, softly, then stared up at him, her face glacial. "But I'm not sorry for why."

Brittany smiled into her shoulder. Quinn patted Santana's hand without saying anything.

Puck shook his head. _Girls. Fucking_ _ **girls.**_

As he made his way gingerly past them, touching a hand to the back of his head that came away bloody, he replayed everything that had just happened in lightning-quick motion and had the very first, probably last flash of insight in his entire life.

In the bedroom, it hadn't been him Santana had responded to. It had been Brittany's voice.

He stopped at the top of the stairs and looked back. Santana was clinging to Brittany's hand like if she didn't, she'd be sucked into space. Brittany was stroking her hair. Quinn had her arms around both of them in a strangely motherly fashion. And Puck twigged.

Oh.

_Oh._

_That explains a_ _**lot.** _

So now Puck knew. It took a few days before he was brave enough to approach Santana and apologise, and she brushed him off with a curt, "Forget it. I have."

Puck decided that was probably wise. And because he was still a guy, and still a sex-god, and if he was ever gonna get that Brittany-Santana threesome he wanted so much – and hey, once Santana simmered down, it could happen – he knew he'd better keep his mouth shut about his little insight.

Plus, y'know, Santana was pretty awesome. Once you got to know her. And she punched like a dude. Puck respected that.

So he didn't tell anyone.

* * *

**SUGAR MOTTA**

Like Quinn, Sugar had always known. In fact, Sugar was totally confused when she realised that this was something other people _didn't_ know. Sugar had taken one glance at Santana and Brittany and the way they looked at each other, and thought, _Ooooh, adorable, just like Pretty Little Liars!_ The Troubletones meetings only confirmed what Sugar assumed was common knowledge, so common that since she never heard anyone else mention it, it wasn't even a source of gossip anymore. No big deal. Sugar Motta wasn't a bigot, no sir. If two chicks wanted to make with the lady-lovin', especially if they were as good-looking as Santana and Brittany, Sugar Motta was completely down with that. Lesbians were _totally_ cute, in her opinion, unless they were the scary dinner suit-wearing kind with man-hair (Sorry! Asperger's!), and even they were sort of awesome to have around if you needed furniture moved.

So when Santana came barrelling into the dressing room at the back of the auditorium where Sugar and the other Troubletones had just finished getting changed for their Adele mashup, and she was in floods of tears, gasping out, "Britt", Sugar wasn't surprised that Brittany was the first one to her side. She was more surprised that Santana was crying, because as far as Sugar was concerned, Santana Lopez was probably the coldest, hardest bitch on the face of the planet, and there was no way she let anything get to her enough to cry.

"Babe, what is it?" Brittany asked, her face stricken, collecting the weeping girl in her arms, both of them sinking to the floor, Santana apparently unable to keep herself upright. Brittany pushed Santana's hair out of her face, gently. "Baby, what's wrong? What's happened?" Santana didn't reply, merely wrapped her arms around Brittany and sobbed into her neck.

Behind Sugar, Mercedes was shooing the other Troubletones out of the room, not gently. Sugar escaped the cull by virtue of being on the other side of the dressing tables, and she decided not to say anything, just in case. Her standing with the three girls had marginally increased of late, mostly because her Dad totally paid for them all to get mani-pedis together on a regular basis, but she knew better than to think she was part of some inner circle – not yet. Sugar Motta always found a way, though. Usually by buying it, but that was beside the point.

Mercedes crossed to the two girls and crouched down beside them. She reached out and touched Santana's shoulder, and the crying girl shrugged her off immediately, pushing closer to Brittany instead. The gesture was softened by Santana's words, through her tears, though she wasn't speaking to Mercedes: "I'm sorry, I just can't. I can't, I'm sor-sorry."

Brittany's face was like nothing Sugar had ever seen; her usual sunny smile replaced by a thundercloud of worry and suspicion. "Santana?" she asked gently. "Tell me what's happened. Whose ass do I have to kick?"

" _We,"_ Mercedes said, firmly, and Sugar bit off the urge to add her own voice to the chorus. This was not cool. Maybe she and Santana weren't friends yet, not really, but Sugar had a plan, and the plan ended with her and Santana and Brittany being total BFFs and spending the upcoming summer on her Dad's yacht in the Greek islands. Hotties to bring the boys in with no actual competition for their attention – what's not to love?

Santana's sobs turned into something more like hiccups, as Brittany carefully and gently rubbed her back, not caring who was watching.

"Comm … commercial," Santana managed. "Fucking Fi-Finn. TV. Fucking television. Britt, my parents _._ _Mi abuela._ "

"What?" Brittany murmured, cupping Santana's face in her hands. "What commercial?"

For the first time, Santana seemed to realise they were not alone. Her face drained of colour, but Brittany brought her around firmly, looking right into her eyes. "San," she said gently, "they're our friends. I know you're scared, but it's okay. It really, really is. I promise you, babe. I _promise._ Okay?"

Santana looked back at her, and to Sugar it looked like she was letting go of something, but not willingly. It was like she'd finally been beaten into submission. Santana swallowed heavily, then nodded, and Brittany hugged her tight.

Into Brittany's shoulder, Santana mumbled something Sugar couldn't hear.

Then Brittany answered, "I love you too," her eyes shining. "So much. I am _so_ yours."

Sugar was completely confused when Mercedes' mouth dropped open in an 'O' shape. Mercedes rearranged her features into neutrality almost immediately, but not before Sugar realised that this was apparently new information to her, or at least the first time it had been confirmed. _What?_ How rock-dumb _was_ Mercedes, anyway? (Sorry! Asperger's!)

Santana turned to face them both, threaded her fingers through Brittany's, and took a deep, rattling breath. She met Mercedes' eyes. "Okay?" she asked, her voice tight.

To Sugar, it sounded like whatever Mercedes said next was going to make the difference between everything and nothing and all the parts in between it.

Mercedes seemed to realise it, too. She reached down and took Santana's free hand in hers. She smiled, very gently, and said, "Santana, of course. Of _course_."

Santana just gazed at her, and her still-scared eyes said _Really?_ and Mercedes gripped her hand even tighter. "It's perfect," she said, resolutely, looking between them. "You're both amazing."

A sob escaped Santana then, and Brittany as well, although hers sounded happy, like a weight had been lifted from her. Santana squeezed Mercedes' hand. "Thanks," she mumbled quietly, and Mercedes nodded.

Santana looked up at Sugar, then, and Sugar didn't know what to say besides, "I _totes_ love Ellen DeGeneres," and she guessed it was maybe the right thing, because all three of them laughed, even Santana a bit, who used the change in the mood to pull herself back together and get to her feet.

Santana told them about the commercial then, her voice dull, and Sugar's stomach flipped over when she realised what was about to happen to the girl; the way it had all been taken away from her without her permission, without her having any say in the way her life was about to be played out. Like a song blared over a loudspeaker that gave away all your secrets and there was nothing you could do to stop it. Sugar felt sick, and from the look on Mercedes' face, Sugar could tell that she did, too.

Brittany's eyes were bright, hard, angry and heartbroken all at once.

Mercedes was steaming. "Baby girl, we don't have to do the song now. We can go and kick Finn's ass instead."

Santana shook her head. "I'd rather get it over with," she said. "Let's just do it. Let's kick his ass that way first."

Mercedes nodded and held up her closed fist. " _Hell,_ yes."

Santana smiled faintly, and bumped Mercedes' fist with her own, but all the fire Sugar knew her for was muted. Brittany put an arm around her and led her away to get changed.

A few minutes later, Sugar followed them towards the stage, and when she made the quiet suggestion that her Dad could buy the guy who was running for Congress and ship him off to Yemen, Santana shot her a rough smile, and Sugar thought maybe that was a plan she could secretly action after the mash-off, if it meant Santana kept looking at her like that. Brittany wrapped a friendly arm briefly around her shoulder, and Mercedes hip-bumped her, and Sugar thought she might burst from the happy. It was a nice feeling, and an entirely unfamiliar one. Maybe she could be part of this little family after all. Maybe she might not even have to buy her way in. Maybe these girls could be the first real friends she'd ever had.

Santana sang amazingly. Heartbreakingly. Like it was the last time she was ever going to sing in her damn life. And when she jumped off the stage at the end and slapped Finn Hudson right into next week, Sugar was shocked, but not even the slightest bit sorry for him.

Finn Hudson was a dumb, clueless, little asshole who deserved everything he got.

Not sorry. Not Asperger's.

* * *

**Next chapter: Becky Jackson and Rory Flanagan**


	7. Becky and Rory

**BECKY JACKSON**

Becky Jackson hadn't known.

Becky was a sly, conniving bitch, and she was damn proud of it. If Becky had known, the world would have heard of it from the rooftops. If Becky had known, she would have shot the commercial herself and made sure it aired in all fifty states, not just Ohio. Hell, she would have beamed that shit from the moon and sent it global.

Except for she wouldn't, actually.

Becky hated Santana Lopez with the passionate, white-hot intensity of a thousand fiery suns.

Except for she didn't, actually.

Becky knew that appearances were important, and she knew that giving in to Santana Lopez - on _anything -_ would mean risking her place as co-captain of the Cheerios. And there was no way Becky was going to let that happen. Santana could smell weakness like a bloodhound could smell a dead body, and if you slipped up and showed it to her, she had no hesitation in going for the kill.

So if Santana said _jump,_ Becky said _crouch_ and when Santana wanted red, Becky wanted black, and if Santana said it was raining outside, then Becky would go to her grave swearing the sun was shining. It wasn't about being argumentative, it was about not letting Santana whittle control from her inch by inch, choice by choice. Becky didn't always get what she wanted, of course, but she did sometimes, and for a chick with Down Syndrome in a school full of total bitches? That wasn't bad.

_Focus, Becky. Always focus. Never let anyone think you're weak._

The reason Becky didn't hate Santana Lopez was, ironically, because Santana Lopez hated Becky. No, hear her out, okay? Santana hated Becky, and, for the first time in Becky's life, not because she had Down Syndrome. It was because Santana was _threatened_ by her. It was because Santana had to share things with her – the captaincy of the Cheerios, Coach Sylvester's attention, and totes the title of hottest bitch at McKinley. And everyone knew Santana hated to share with people – well, except for Brittany. Once at lunch, a junior Cheerio had casually reached over and snagged a fry from Santana's lunch tray. There was a collective gasp, then silence, as every face at the table turned immediately to look between the hapless JV, the fry hanging from her mouth like a wilting caterpillar, and Santana's terrifying stillness, slightly tilted head and arched eyebrows. The fracas that followed was a cafeteria talking-point of senior year.

Becky often wondered whether maybe she should have helped the JV girl out of the giant vat of coleslaw afterwards, but it _was_ kind of funny, to be honest. Who didn't know better than to take stuff from Santana Lopez? _Please._

Santana and Becky argued about _everything._ And when they did, Santana didn't give any quarter, nor did she back down for the cute Downie girl, nor did she patronise Becky. Becky had lost count of the times she'd been called _tiny Nazi_ and overruled _,_ but she'd also lost count of the times Santana grudgingly acceded to one of Becky's decisions as well. Usually with a "Fine, MiniSue, we'll do it your sucky way, whatever. Go make a Wonka bar or something." Becky knew the more insults the sentence contained, the more Santana knew Becky was in the right.

No, to Santana, Becky's disability might as well not have existed.

Unlike most of the school - including people who claimed to be her friends, like Rachel, who always let this tiny bit of charitable _sweetness_ enter her voice when she spoke to Becky, or Finn, who smiled at her the way people smiled at five-year-olds - Santana treated Becky exactly the same way she treated everyone else. Awfully. She didn't dumb down her vocabulary, or speak more slowly, or repeat herself. She just talked to - barked at - Becky like she was any other normal girl. One she wished would die in a fire.

They would stand face-to-face (if Becky climbed on a box) and scream at each other until they were both hoarse. Once Santana threatened to find a well to stuff her into: "So deep that all the gay celebrity boo-hoo songs in the _world_ will never get your microscopic ass out of there!" and Becky told Santana that under her bed, she kept a life-sized voodoo doll of Santana "just to see how many cuts fit on your scarecrow butt!"

In a world of people two heads taller than her, who either teased the hell out of her, simply overlooked her existence, or greeted her with a simpering, "Well, _hi_ there, Becky! And how are _you_ today, _sweet_ heart?" Santana Lopez was one of the only voices Becky could count on to be raised against her own – insistent, opposing and unafraid.

_Equal._

Becky knew it was weird, but on the inside, she kind of secretly loved Santana for that.

Once Santana had come upon Becky in the Cheerios locker room, still a little teary from her latest breakup. When the older girl walked in, Becky froze, expecting laughter at best and Santana's usual malice at worst. What she got instead - once, just this once - was a bump on the shoulder, a clean tissue, and "Guys _suck_ ," delivered in a tone so vehement in its understanding that it made Becky cry more. Santana sat next to her for a while, but she didn't say anything else apart from, "You really need to go to Sephora and buy some eye cover-up if you're gonna keep crying like a little bitch all the time. You look like Gimli." Becky didn't know who Gimli was, and when she googled it later, she spelled it Gimlleigh and got no hits, so even though she was none the wiser, she was pretty sure it was bad.

(Santana took Becky and Brittany to Sephora on the weekend and insulted Becky the entire time. It was awesome.)

When Becky found out Santana's secret (Jewfro put a horrifyingly creepy and blaring editorial on his blog two days before the commercial aired), she had gone to Coach Sylvester and cried in the big red chair. Normally, Coach would be unsympathetic about something as weak as tears, but when Becky explained why she was crying, Coach got a weird unhappy look on her face and didn't say anything else.

Becky was crying because she felt so bad for Santana that it made her a little bit sick.

Because Becky knew - knew at a bone-deep and cellular level - what Santana had coming to her now.

The way people would hold themselves a little bit away from her, like she had something they could catch, or the way people would cut their eyes sideways when they were next to her, or the way people would say things just under their breath as she walked past in the hallways. The short silences when she entered a room. The moments when people would pretend they weren't actually looking at _her,_ just kind of … past her or through her. The people who made well-meaning, excruciating attempts at solidarity, people who said things like, "My neighbour's brother has Down Syndrome!" in an over-bright tone reeking of _understanding_ and _compassion_ that made Becky want to choke a bitch. The spaces that were made around her without her asking for them. The seat on the bench next to her that wasn't filled. The eternal, infinite buzz of _that one there, that girl, over there, her, she, you know, I heard, I'm not prejudiced or anything but,_ or the one that Becky could never forget, _I just don't think they should be allowed in a school with normal people._

Yeah, Becky knew all about what Santana had in store for her. She was the _captain_ of that shit, and late that night she wondered, hazily, right before she dropped off to sleep, if maybe she and Santana had just kind of started captaining another team together, whether Santana liked it or not. And it was the sort of team that nobody else ever wanted to join, and that made you tired and sad a lot, and that made people like Miss Pillsbury boop your nose occasionally and say stuff like, "It won't always be like this, you know."

Maybe Becky would tell Santana about the team in the morning.

Maybe Becky would let Santana pick the team colours.

Maybe Becky would try and teach Santana about how she'd have to be even stronger now, and hold her head up higher than she ever thought she could.

Most probably Santana would tell her to go to hell, but Becky was used to that, and besides, it'd just mean it was Tuesday.

Becky Jackson hadn't known, and by the time she found out, there was nobody left to tell anyway.

* * *

**RORY FLANAGAN**

Rory discovered it accidentally after living at Brittany's for a month.

Even though Santana said she didn't understand a word that came out of his mouth, Rory was pretty clear on everything that came out of hers. And in the short time he'd been living at Brittany's place, he'd heard more than he ever wanted to from Santana. Mostly it was in the form of _get the hell out of my way, Susan Boyle,_ and _why don't you go find your lucky charms,_ and _fiddle-dee-dee, potatoes!_ And after a series of near escapes, and another series of being verbally scratched to within an inch of his life, Rory was pretty convinced that if Santana wasn't the actual devil incarnate, she was running a bloody close second. There was no manly way to put it: Rory was _absolutely terrified_ of Santana Lopez.

She was often at the Pierce house now, but apparently the two girls had, until recently, been less close for some reason. He picked it up a while back from hearing a conversation between Mr and Mrs Pierce.

Mrs Pierce told Mr Pierce she was glad Santana had finally reappeared, because Brittany was such a nightmare for those couple of months there and that around junior prom time she'd asked Brittany where Santana was, and why didn't she come over anymore. And then Brittany had damn near bitten her head off, and she (Mrs Pierce) was about to go out of her head with the irritability and reticence and general moping, and she wished that Britt would snap out of it already and just tell them, since it's not like anybody would be surprised and she'd totally been practicing her 'non-judgemental and supportive mother' face in the bathroom mirror since they were like fourteen, for chrissakes.

Mr Pierce had said that it was probably good for them to have spent some time apart, since they'd practically lived in each other's pockets since they were ten, because he read that _Queen Bees and Wannabes_ book that _Mean Girls_ was based on, and didn't girl best friends change all the time anyway? And Mrs Pierce had said, "Are you fucking stupid?" in a tone of voice that implied heavily that she thought: yes, he was. Mr Pierce asked what she was talking about, and Mrs Pierce had made that sound she always did when she threw her hands in the air with an _I give up_ gesture, which she did a lot when trying to understand Rory's accent, so he knew it well.

It was an interesting conversation. Rory filed it away in the same place he kept the time that Santana had referred to Brittany as "my girl" and called her "beautiful" and threatened to explode him.

Santana was always on high alert and full bitch mode around Rory, for some reason. So when she was at the Pierce house, Rory tended to just … melt away. He became really, really good at not being seen. It wasn't the largest of houses, but pretty much every room had a nook, a corner, a _something_ which meant that upon hearing her dreaded voice approaching, Rory could disappear until the evil had passed him by. It was like dodging the Eye of Sauron, and just about as dangerous, as far as Rory was concerned.

Except for the day he got trapped in the living room behind the sofa.

Rory was in the living room searching for the remote control when he heard the front door open with a bang. From the hallway drifted:

"…why it's such a big freakin' deal. It's just sex. She talks about it like it's the holy grail or the golden fleece or something."

_Santana._ Rory immediately straightened and looked for cover. The living room opened onto the hallway, and she'd see him if she passed the door. Without thinking, he ducked behind the giant family sofa and flattened himself to the ground.

Brittany's soft voice followed soon after. "But you remember the first time with boys, San. It was kinda scary and kinda squishy and kinda awesome and gross all at once. And we're cool, so we practiced a lot. Imagine what it's like to be Rachel and never have been cool ever and never got to practice? She's turned it into, like, the main event of everything ever in her head. Like she's been at a Wiggles concert for 17 years and somebody just gave her Beyonce tickets."

Rory practically _heard_ Santana's eyes roll. "Whatever. It's _Finn,_ and he's sure as shit not Beyonce. She's working herself up over absolutely nothing at all, believe me. And she won't even know it until she's got somebody to compare him to! It'll just be one more thing she thinks she deserves a gold star for."

Rory heard the twin thump of their backpacks hitting the ground as Brittany giggled, "Imagine if she got a tattoo or something. Like, on her…"

"…berry?" Santana suggested archly, and they both broke into laughter, but for once, it wasn't mean. Rory thought it sounded oddly … fond.

"Mom?" Brittany called out, pausing in the doorway to the living room. "Dad?"

" _Totally gay leprechaun?"_ Santana hollered, and Brittany elbowed her in the stomach.

There was no answer - Mr and Mrs Pierce because they weren't home, and Rory because he was frozen in horror behind the sofa. They weren't coming in here. They weren't coming in here. Were they? Most of their time at the Pierce house was spent locked behind Brittany's bedroom door with loud music playing. Why would they come in here now?

Except they did.

"Awesome," Santana announced, happily, and dragged Brittany to crash on the very sofa Rory was behind. He flattened himself further, and was busy making sure he made no sound at all when he heard something so unmistakable that his brain froze.

Kissing noises.

Kissing. Noises.

Rory processed this calmly. Only Brittany and Santana were in the room. Only Brittany and Santana were on the sofa. Where the kissing noises were coming from. Which meant only Brittany and Santana could be making the kissing noises. Which meant Brittany and Santana were kissing each other.

Rory couldn't decide whether it was the best or the worst moment of his life. It sure as hell put a lot of things into perspective. But it also meant one thing: there was no way he could make a dignified exit now. Or any exit at all. If Santana found out he was in the room, Rory was pretty sure he would leave without his balls. And possibly his tongue. There was no way a belated, "Whoops, sorry, dropped my contact, I'll just be going," was gonna cut it in this situation.

So he closed his eyes, and proceeded to try hard as hell not to picture what was happening on the sofa, which was practically impossible, because Rory had eyes and an imagination. Santana might be evil, but she was super hot. And Rory thought Brittany was pretty much the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen, so all things put together, he was having quite the rough time of it stuffed back there. Unlike the two girls on the sofa, who were making the kind of soft sounds that Rory would never, ever forget.

Rory took a moment to think about what he'd just accidentally discovered, and found that a lot of things suddenly made sense. Santana's constant hovering jealousy, and, once she'd found out he had a crush on Brittany, her inexhaustible need to insult him every time she saw him. She'd once made a Roma Downey reference so obscure that Rory needed to google it later – and he then overheard her admitting to Brittany that she'd spent two hours on Wikipedia "looking up Irish shit just so I never run out." That whole conversation Mr and Mrs Pierce had. The frequently locked doors. Why Santana refused to let him in the car when she picked Brittany up for school. ("Why doncha just make a little gay wish and fly there on a potato sack?") The time a foot had softly slid over his at the dinner table before Santana suddenly jerked, her face flaming, and the foot had disappeared. The time he'd been waiting for the bathroom and they'd _both_ exited, glowing damply and smiling, until Santana saw his puzzled look and snapped, "Stop thinking and it'll stop hurting so much, Blarney Stone."

Yes, you could say that a lot of pieces fell into place for Rory Flanagan while he was face-down on the cream shag carpeting of the Pierce's living room floor. He found, to his surprise, that he was not really surprised at all.

What he _was,_ was super-uncomfortable and terrified of getting caught. Yet, the kissing continued.

"Jesus, Britt," Santana mumbled, softly, "if anyone ever deserved a gold star…"

Brittany hummed happily. "Maybe I should kiss Rachel and find out?"

"Argh, why'd you say that? Now I've got a mental picture and it's sucking my will to live. Quick, do something to get it out."

Whatever Brittany did, it shut Santana up for at least five minutes and made Rory's cheeks burn.

There was the noise of a car door outside, and Santana shot upright. "Was that…?"

Brittany pulled her back. "Relax, it's the neighbours. Come back down here."

Santana did. "Can you imagine," she mumbled, punctuated by kisses, "what it'll be like when we have … our own place … in New York … and we won't ever have to worry about … who's coming home when … or locking doors … or anything … like … that?"

"Yeah," Brittany responded, breathless. And then: "That's if I still apply to Tisch and everything."

There was a long silence, and then Santana sat upright again. "What?"

There was a little tremble in Brittany's voice when she said, "Well … I haven't, like, scheduled my artistic review yet."

Santana's voice saw that tremble and raised it some panic. "Why? I mean, why not? We sent the academic applications in last month!"

"Yeah, I know, but…"

"But _what?_ My audition is less than three months away! We're supposed to be doing this together, Britt!"

Brittany hesitated. "Maybe I don't want to go to NYU, you know? Maybe college isn't for me. Maybe it is. I'm not sure."

"When were you gonna tell me this?"

"Well, I haven't actually, like, made my mind up one hundred percent…"

" _So?_ We're supposed to talk about stuff like this! It's what…" - Santana broke off, and her voice lowered automatically - "…girlfriends _do_."

Even from behind the sofa, Rory heard Brittany's deep sigh.

"Is having to whisper about being girlfriends something girlfriends do as well?"

Rory heard Santana shift on the sofa. He could almost picture her expression – eyes sliding to the right and down, her chin coming up a fraction, her lips slightly parting. It's what Santana did when she was busted, bested - or in the wrong.

"I'm sorry, babe," she muttered, finally. "It's just…"

"It's fine," Brittany interrupted, quietly. "I get that it's taking time and everything, San, but it's like baby steps, you know?"

"I know."

"And maybe, like, you could start by not being so careful when it's just the two of us, okay?"

Rory felt terrible. This was so bad. He was so going to hell for this. Scratch that. Santana would catch him and _send_ him to hell for hearing this. Even beneath his fear, Rory registered that he'd never heard Santana sound so vulnerable. It was humanising. Rory was a good enough person to file that away as well.

"So…" Santana began carefully, "you don't want to go to college at all?"

"I don't know. Maybe. It's like, when I think about NYU, I see all these buildings and none of them have 'Brittany' written over them. It doesn't matter yet, right? I've got ages to work it out."

"No, we don't! This is important. This is our _future_! Why are you being so cavalier about it?"

There was a pause, before Brittany said, "What are you talking about? You know I can't ride a horse, and I'm not even in the army."

"That's cavalry," Santana said, automatically. "I meant … so freakin' assumptive. Like I wouldn't even care what you did or what your choices are."

"Of course I know you care!" Brittany said, earnestly. "Of course I think it's important to you!"

"Well, you hid it from me, so it sure doesn't fucking sound like it," Santana snapped, and Rory heard her pull away and move to the end of the sofa in a huff.

"Don't _talk_ to me that way, Santana!"

"What way?"

There was a long silence before Brittany said, quietly, "The way you talk to everybody else."

If Santana said anything in response, Rory didn't hear it. What he heard instead was a rustle, and then: "I'm sorry, Britt." Another pause, before she added, miserably, "I feel like all I ever do is apologise to you. Why do you put up with me?"

Brittany sighed, but it wasn't a sad sigh. "Because I'm like, in love with you," she said gently. For good measure, she added, "Dumbass."

Santana didn't say anything, and Rory held his breath for Brittany's sake, his heart thumping so loudly that he was sure the two girls would hear it.

Finally: "Why." It wasn't a question.

"Do you really want me to list all the reasons? Because we'd be here until Christmas in 2026 and I think I'm getting hungry."

Santana drew in a deep, dark-sounding breath. "But all I do is disappoint you, or let you down, or make you wait, or push you into things you maybe don't wanna do…"

"San, I do wanna go to New York with you. I do. I just don't know if Tisch is for me or not. The only reason they'd let me in academically is because of you helping me, and-"

"I like helping you," Santana interrupted.

"I don't wanna be helped, though," Brittany said. "I want to find something I love where I don't need to be helped by anyone, not even you. Do you understand? Because I don't think you do."

"You don't?" Santana sounded so uncertain that it was heartbreaking.

"No," Brittany rushed on, "not like that. I mean, I know you understand me, babe. Better than anyone, ever. But maybe you've spent so long just … _being_ with me, like my right arm or something, that you haven't noticed I've got one of my own. An arm, I mean," she finished, hurriedly. "And it's not like I don't love having you there beside me all the time, because I do, but sometimes I think I need to maybe not lean on you so much. Or on anyone, really. Like, I have to make sure all my arms and legs work by themselves. Because, like, if I'm gonna be a dancer, I need them to, so."

Rory heard Santana swallow. "Are … you breaking up with me?"

"NO!" Brittany almost bellowed. "San, no! I would never ever break up with you! Why won't you ever believe me about that?" Her voice was suddenly muffled, like she'd buried her face in something. "God, why am I so bad at explaining stuff?"

"I don't think you are," was Santana's equally muffled response. "Maybe … I'm just bad at hearing."

Brittany's chuckle was barely audible. "Maybe you are a bit. Like, you never seem to hear me properly when I tell you I love you."

Santana's voice was low, too. "It's just so hard to believe. That I got so lucky. You know?"

"I do know. I think that all the time. Every day. Every minute I look at you, I think the same thing."

There was another long silence, and Rory stilled his breathing.

"San, you _are_ my future. Maybe I won't go to college, but I'll find something else, or I won't, and none of it matters anyway, because the only thing – like, the _only_ thing I'm frightened about is not having you. You need to stop worrying _for_ me, because you already do enough of that for yourself. We might not be at the same school, but we'll totally be in the same house, because I am so never leaving you. Not even if you try and make me. Just … never. Okay?"

Santana took a deep, shaky breath. "Jesus, Britt. How can you-"

"I know, be so smart," Brittany interrupted, a smile in her voice.

"…make me love you so much?" Santana finished.

Brittany made a small sound in her throat.

Rory felt his chest tighten. He knew, _knew,_ that this entire conversation was one he was not meant to have heard, but he couldn't help being glad that he had. He felt like he'd been given a window into something kind of beautiful that nobody else would ever get to see. Like those Andes flowers that only bloomed once every hundred years. And because he thought Brittany was awesome, if Brittany wanted Santana, then Rory wanted Santana for her as well.

Let me tell you, Rory had _not_ been expecting _that_ when he woke up that morning.

It was another half an hour before they left the living room, and in that time, they covered multiple topics ranging from Finn's weight problem (" _Pastry_ bag!"), to their routine for the upcoming Cheerios Nationals, to whether or not Quinn was getting better after "The Ginormous Psycho Attack of Twenty-Eleven", to which neighbourhood of New York they wanted to live in most. Santana said Greenwich Village or Chelsea, and Brittany said Hell's Kitchen because she'd always wanted to see Satan up close and find out what the big deal was. Santana agreed they'd start looking there.

So Rory, as his aching back and knees would attest, _definitely_ knew.

And a month later, when he was next to Finn in the hallway, and Finn called Santana a coward for not coming out, the look on Rory's face wasn't surprise, but horror at the fact Finn was yelling it out for everyone to hear, because didn't Finn understand that _Jesus,_ Mary and Joseph, you just didn't _do_ that to _anyone_ , no matter how evil and scary they could be and no matter how many times they called you a pork belly.

Rory had never seen Santana look so small. Like she was shrinking in the hallway into another kind of creature altogether. He saw her shoulders draw together and her arms tighten around her books as they kind of inched up her chest, like she was making a shield.

He looked wildly around for Brittany, but she was nowhere to be seen. And there was no way Rory could approach Santana alone, not without giving away everything that he knew.

So when Finn walked away, Rory just stood there. Santana was still frozen.

People parted around her in streams, some with meaningful looks and others with shock, and others with evil delight, and one girl with a desperate kind of knowing pity on her face. Everyone was talking, and everyone was looking. Santana just stood there. Rory couldn't see her face.

The hall was empty before Santana finally moved. Rory stood helpless in a doorway and watched her go.

She walked slowly, unsteadily, like she'd forgotten how to breathe.

Fear of Santana's wrath and a deep affection for Brittany had kept Rory quiet. Now Finn had made him part of a moment he really wished had never happened.

Rory suddenly craved to be a leprechaun after all. He had a pretty good idea of what Santana's wish would be, and he ached to be able to grant it.

Rory kind of didn't think Finn Hudson was so cool any more.

**TBC - Next chapter: Mike Chang and Sam Evans**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written before we knew Britt wasn't graduating. Kinda throws a wrench in my poor old head-canon, but too late now. Sigh.


	8. Mike and Sam

**MIKE CHANG**

Mike knew because he and Brittany spent so much time together working on choreography for Glee. More often than not, that meant Santana was in the room as well. When she wasn’t, though, he and Brittany danced their hearts out, and somewhere in the middle of it all, Mike realised Brittany was dancing for a reason bigger and deeper than just the joy of dance itself.

Brittany was Mike’s … something. He didn’t know quite what to call her. Tina jokingly - and refreshingly, without a hint of jealousy - referred to her as his “bro”, but there was an element deeper than that to it. They just sort of … understood each other, on a level that Mike didn’t think anyone else in Glee Club actually realised. So deep, that they often didn’t even need to talk.

When he danced with Brittany, Mike felt something stir inside him that he never felt at any other time – not even with Tina. Brittany was the only person Mike knew who loved dancing as much as he did, who let it physically _live_ within her, until all of her feelings came out in these fizzes and pops and jumps and bursts of movement, as if everything was too big to be cooped up inside, and letting her body run free was the only way to manage it. When they danced together, it was like an electric current filled the room, and there was a addictive element to it that Mike craved. He wanted to dance with Brittany forever. Not to confuse anything; he wasn’t in love with Brittany in _that_ way. But he _was_ in love with the dynamic they created between them, in love with seeing her smiling face opposite his, feeling her hands in his, her body twisting in his arms or wrapped across his back, or lifting her into a spin that left them both panting and reeling, flushed from the excitement and the joy inside that neither of them had a name for. With that current between them, they had spent the last three years dancing themselves closer each day. Mike didn’t think he even knew what Britt’s favourite colour was, or food, or anything like that. But it didn’t matter; whatever it was they shared, Mike loved Brittany wholly and sincerely, and knew she felt the same way about him.

Mike found that he could read Brittany’s moods. Understand every breath she took. Know what she was thinking from the way she crossed a room. The way she sat in a chair, head on Santana’s shoulder. In the way she danced.

Mike actually really liked Santana, and always had. He secretly found her outspokenness brave, and, since he couldn’t remember the last time one had been directed at him, her insults hilarious. The two of them had an odd affinity. Not just because they’d once made out at a party in freshman year - Santana had called him ‘White Lotus’ and played with his hair and gently laughed a no at him when he nervously asked her out - but because Santana seemed to sincerely like him, too. Mike knew the fact that Brittany was his bro had a little something to do with it, but that wasn’t the only reason. As far as Mike knew, Santana only liked about four people. He was pretty stoked to be one of them. Like, since Santana hated everything and everyone, if you were an exception, you must be prettywicked cool.

Mike had always wished he could achieve an effortless cool, but he had to work really hard at it. He continued to play football because the jersey and helmet (and his six-foot-plus frame) gave him a certain layer of protection from being the dancing, singing Asian guy from academic decathlon that would have spelled doom in every other high school in America. And while Mike loved Tina more than anything in the world, her reputation as both a show choir geek _and_ the school vampire made cool a tough ceiling to crack. But Mike managed it the same way he managed everything else; quietly, without a fuss and with a smile on his face. Maybe, he thought, that was what Santana liked about him so much. That he just got on with the business of being Mike, much in the way that she got on with the business of being Santana _._

Santana and Brittany had always come as a pair in Mike’s mind. They just _were._ Always had been. _BrittanyandSantana_. A single entity. When Mike saw them around without the other one next to them, they always looked kind of off-kilter and unbalanced to him, like he had to shake his head because an ear was blocked up or something. Mike liked balance, and symmetry, and things that made sense with other things. _BrittanyandSantana_ made sense to him in a way that Finn and Rachel did not – her with her tiny, upright frame and Finn with that unbearably tall, awkward shuffling slouch that always made Mike want to punch him between the shoulder blades and tell him to straighten up, because _dude,_ did he know what his spine would look like in twenty years? But, yeah. Those two girls just kind of … fit, side-by-side, and that’s why when Brittany let slip what she did, Mike wasn’t really surprised at all.

They were in the auditorium alone; Tina had to go shopping with her mom, and Santana had some kind of meeting with Coach Sylvester that meant she was trapped for at least two hours. Mike didn’t know why anyone would voluntarily spend time with Coach Sylvester; he had been routinely avoiding her and her relentless invitations to join the Cheerios (once delivered via a mildly sinister personal singing telegram) since freshman year, when she’d first come across him doing his best b-boy imitation in the locker room for the benefit of a laughing Matt and Puck. But anyway, it meant Britt was at a loose end, and she’d suggested they freestyle to try and work out some routines for the upcoming Regionals. Mike was always on board for some Britt time, so it was just the two of them, an iPod dock and an empty afternoon stretching ahead.

“Okay, do Kurt,” Brittany said, smiling, and Mike grinned and struck a pose. Brittany sat on the stage with her legs crossed like a little kid, tears of laughter pouring from her eyes as Mike flitted about the stage, summoning something so uncannily like Kurt’s odd mix of masculine and feminine energy that the boy himself might as well have been there. There was no mocking implied; Mike liked Kurt immensely and would have punched the crap out of anyone who looked at him sideways. But there was no denying it; Kurt danced like Peter Pan on an off-day, and Mike’s shimmies and spins captured him perfectly.

“Now Mercedes!” Britt called out, and Mike dropped into a Tina Turner slouch, his brow furrowed in concentration, fingers coming up to snap out a fierce beat. He prowled, turned, prowled again, Brittany’s delighted smile lighting up the stage as much as the beams from the rigging above.

Mike executed a devastating spin, flung his arms above his head, and sang out the highest chest voice note he could - dimly registering it as a B-minor with the fleeting thought that Tina would be proud of him - and then snapped his chin to his chest, arms dropping to his sides.

Brittany applauded wildly. “Uh-huh! You’re a strong, powerful black woman! Wooo!”

“PRAISE!” Mike shouted, grinning.

“It’s okay cos you’re Asian,” Brittany said. “But if I did it, it’d probably be racist.”

Mike chuckled. “How about Artie? Can you do him?”

Brittany frowned and held both hands straight up into the air. “There. Everyone can do Artie. Gimme a harder one.”

Mike considered this. “Okay, Finn.” As the name left his lips, he could swear he saw Britt’s nose wrinkle ever so slightly.

Brittany uncurled herself from the floor. “That’s easy.” She raised herself on her toes, and suddenly seemed to be a foot taller, all arms and legs and uncomfortable feet splaying in the wrong direction. Mike blinked as Brittany began an awkward hobble forward, and then performed one of their simpler routines from last year’s Regionals under the guise of Finn. Every step was half-a-beat off, every turn _just_ a touch too slow, every move forward a slight lurch instead of a glide. She ended by turning halfway in the wrong direction, and then correcting herself, allowing a look of puffed-up pride to enter her face and her chest to heave up and down while her arms wobbled in their position. It was uncanny, and perfect, and Mike couldn’t hold in his laughter.

Brittany tilted her head. “I know, right? Finn’s body is so stupid at music. Not his brain, because he can totally sing and stuff. But it’s like somebody put together a puppet and wired all the strings in the wrong places, so when you pull on the arm one, the head moves instead, or something.”

Mike stared. It was the best description of Finn that he’d ever heard. He never understood why people thought Brittany was stupid. Mike thought Britt was one of the smartest people he knew.

He told her so, and she headed for her towel on the piano with a slight grin. “Santana says that too,” she said, almost to herself.

“Oh yeah, we forgot her,” Mike said.

“I never forget her,” Brittany replied, her back to him, towel slung over her shoulder.

Mike studied Brittany a second, before asking, “Do you want me to…?”

“No, no, I got this,” Brittany said, almost too quickly. She dropped her towel and turned around, and Mike took a half-step back at the intensity of expression on her face. It was like … Britt’s not home, man. In her place was full-force Santana – lean, predatory, smouldering, head cocked to one side.

Mike grinned at her, flipped through the iPod until he found some Winehouse, and leaned against the piano with his hands in his pockets.

The dance began. Santana was on the stage – the coy look over the shoulder, the sultry grin, bend-and-snap, the stalk backwards, then forwards, the graceful arm lift into a turn. It was all Santana. Mike watched, entranced. Brittany had a look on her face Mike had never seen before, and something about it prickled in the back of his mind. What was that?

As Amy faded, Bon Iver replaced her, but instead of stopping, Brittany flowed right on. Mike was about to say something, but then he realised that Santana was gone, and Brittany was back.

And Mike had never seen her dance like this before.

Brittany was all motion, all grace, not a sharp angle to be seen. She flowed across the stage like water, turning, rising and falling, spinning, surging; Mike didn’t even know what genre he would have called this dance. Ballet? Contemporary? Interpretive? No, it was something else.

“Is this Santana too?” he asked.

Brittany didn’t reply. She looked like she was on another planet. Her eyes were closed. The dance went on.

It was untamed, a push-pull flow that never stopped. One minute she was tender, another fierce, one second her face was soft, another second full of so much pain it hurt Mike’s throat. He watched her, puzzled, and felt something in his stomach pull tightly when she dropped to the floor, arms wrapped around herself, and was then on tiptoes a mere second later, hands reaching for the spotlights. She spun until she swayed on the spot, bent forward with her hair cascading across her face, lifted herself again, pushing her hair back with what eerily looked like someone’s else’s hands, someone’s else’s tenderness. Somewhere inside it all, Brittany was lost, and somewhere else, she was found as well.

And suddenly Mike felt it hit him with the force of a tornado. Of course it was Santana. And it was more than that.

It was love.

If pure love could dance, this is what it would look like.

And even though it made him feel like a total girl, Mike felt his hands clench into fists in his pockets to try and stop his eyes from prickling. Dammit.

He watched with new knowledge now, and wondered how he’d never seen it before. Because now he realised it had always been there. In every breath Brittany took. In the way she crossed a room. In the way she sat in a chair, head on Santana’s shoulder. In the way they danced.

Brittany came to a flowing stop in front of him, her eyes closed. Her shoulders were rising and falling and she took in breath after even breath, each deeper than the last. Mike could almost hear her heart thudding in her chest.

Brittany looked up at him, then. They gazed at each other for a little while. Mike felt the question pinch his mouth shut, and then Brittany bit her bottom lip in the way she had that meant she’d read his mind. Again.

“Yes,” she said, her voice low, but proud.

Mike smiled down at her, wrapped his arm around her shoulders.

Brittany looked up at him. “She loves me like that too, you know. Every single day.”

Mike swallowed heavily, his eyes hot.

What Brittany didn’t say to him, and didn’t have to, was _Please don’t tell anyone._ Mike never did.

 

**SAM EVANS**

Sam knew because of Rachel’s party, but he didn’t put it all together until a while later, after the thing with the comic book.

At the party, first he watched Santana doing body shots off Brittany for twenty minutes (hot!) and then he was yelled at for the better part of the evening because he’d kissed Brittany in that game. He was staying at Santana’s that night, and quietly hoping for a little rambunctious twins action, but when they got to her bedroom, all she did was roughly push him into a corner towards an armchair, curl up on her bed, and let loose at him, her words all slurry and running together.

_“Hijo de la gran puta…”_

“I didn’t touch any computer!”

Indistinctly: _“Cabron.”_

“Okay. I don’t know what that means, though.”

A stuffed animal flew at his face. “ _Pendejo!”_

“San, I’m only in Junior Spanish and Mr Schue is a pretty bad teacher.”

_“¿Por qué te beso? Estoy mareado…”_

“ _’Beso’_? Kissing? You’re still mad about the kissing?”

This time it was a book (by Sapphire, he noted dimly) that hit him square in the jaw. “Ow, dude, stop it!”

At first, Sam had thought he was getting chewed out for doing the kissing, but at the party he’d soon caught on that it was _who_ he’d kissed that had Santana’s feathers in a ruffle. Drunk, weepy Santana didn’t censor herself very well. He’d told her six times that it didn’t mean anything, and she seemed to have eventually accepted it, settling on the sofa to watch Rachel and Blaine’s duet with a suspiciously interested glint in her eye.

But here she was now, still mad about something to do with kissing. Finally, she seemed to regain the use of English.

“Of everybody there why’d you hafta kiss _her?_ ” she garbled at him blurrily. “There’s like four other girls you coulda kissed. Plus Berry. But nooooo. You had to kiss Britt.” At this point, Santana stopped, and her face crumpled. “And she’s only like … like, the most, totally beautiful girl forever of all time and everything.”

Happily, Sam suddenly got it. “Oh, _right!_ You think…”

Santana thought Sam liked Brittany more than he liked her! (Which, to be honest, he sometimes did. Santana was super hot and really fun, but damn, she could be high maintenance.)

Once Sam understood, he made all the right reassuring noises and all the right deferent explanations. Of course he liked Santana more. Of course he wasn’t going to dump her for Brittany. Of course Santana was his best girl. Etc.

Santana cried, occasionally hiccupped into her pillow and hissed at him in a muffled, unintelligible tangle of both Spanish and English until she suddenly fell asleep, without preamble, her face streaked with mascara and wrath.

Sam wasted no time in climbing up beside her. Gently, he took her boots off, and her faux-fur shoulder shrug, lifted her up until he could fold the covers back, and deposited her into bed. He crawled in beside her and lay with his arms crossed behind his head, studying the ceiling. _My girlfriend is weird,_ he decided. But upon further rumination, he decided that he was lucky to have a girlfriend at all, and gave into the alcohol and lateness of the hour. Just before he dropped off, he heard a mumbled, “Night, Britt baby,” from beside him, and fell asleep smiling. Silly Santana.

It was a few weeks later, after the whole _Landslide_ performance, when the comic-book thing happened. Sam wasn’t a guy who could hide his interests, and happily, wasn’t even a guy who tried. Sam kinda liked himself the way he was, and even though his interest in sci-fi and comics didn’t mesh with his pretty face, Sam didn’t see the need to pretend to be something he wasn’t. Most girls didn’t mind his secret geek side, eventually. If he was trying to get them to watch _Aliens_ , he was less likely to be trying to get them in the sack. And anyway, Santana loved _Aliens_ too. She thought the third film was kinda crap, though, and totally drew the line at the fourth. “Winona Ryder as an alien-killing android with _feelings_? Kill _me_ instead, please.”

Sam hadn’t had many girlfriends in his life, but of them, while Santana seemed the most unlikely to tolerate his inner nerd, she was surprisingly okay with it. As long as they were in private. And completely unobserved. She once even laughed at his Christian Bale freak-out imitation, and helped him with his British accent for a while.

When he then pushed his luck and tried to get her to watch _Return of the Jedi,_ she had flatly refused. “You,” she had stated, “are like some kind of weird geek parasite-succubus thing that drains the cool out of everything around you.” When Sam had protested, she’d relented, patting his cheek fondly. “But if you stay this pretty, we’ll call it even. Besides, _Empire Strikes Back_ is better.”

Sam was delighted. They spent the next twenty minutes arguing about Ewoks until Santana had declared her nerd quotient full for the day, and taken herself off to Brittany’s for a facial. “I needs to get my mojo back, Boba Fett. And if you ever tell anyone I know who that is, I will stuff your trouty mouth full of _actual_ trout, _comprende?_ ”

Sam comprende-d.

Sometimes, Santana was cool. Sometimes, she was scary. Sometimes, Sam couldn’t work out which was which. He did like her, though, even though he couldn’t figure what she wanted with him. Their makeout sessions were both infrequent and half-hearted at best, and whenever Sam brought up the subject, he was shut down post-haste. Sam didn’t really know how he felt about Santana overall, except he was sensible of the fact that one of the hottest, if not _the_ hottest girl in school was happy to be by his side, and he sure as hell wasn’t gonna mess that up.

Two weeks after the party, Santana was over at his house one day after Glee. They’d been making out, very lightweight stuff. She didn’t seem all that into it, so Sam had given up and was reading the second-last issue of _Preacher_ for about the ninth time while Santana idly flipped through his CD collection.

“Norah Jones? Really? Like you could look any more gay.”

Sam looked at her over the top of the comic. “She’s soulful.”

“So’s your mom,” was Santana’s uninspired reply, as she recommenced fiddling with his stuff. Sam went back to his reading.

“I’m bored,” Santana piped up eventually. “Let’s get a burger or something.”

Sam, who for some reason his Dad wouldn’t talk about, hadn’t received his allowance for the fourth week running, and suspected you couldn’t buy burgers with pocket lint, said, “I’m not hungry.”

“Neither am I, I just eats when I’m bored. Entertain me or feed me, pick one. Don’t just lay your gay ass there reading comics, okay? Do you know how many guys at McKinley would kill to have me in their bedroom right now, and you’re there reading a kid’s book!”

Sam sat up, immediately incensed. “THIS IS NOT A KID’S BOOK!”

Santana smirked triumphantly, and Sam realised she had fished in exactly the right pond to get the response she wanted. _Preacher_ forgotten, all eyes on her. Santana – 1. Boredom – 0.

“Comic books…” he began, before she cut him off.

“Don’t even get started on the ‘comic books have been an art form for 80 years speech’, Fishlips. I know it by heart already.”

“Then-”

“There’s not a single comic book _anywhere_ in this nerd palace that wouldn’t make me want to pull my own face off.”

Sam grinned. In his best Sean Connery voice, he said, “Challenge accepted.”

Fifteen minutes later: “No.”

“But-”

“No! I don’t care about a lameass school for mutants, since we clearly already go to one. Look at Finn, for God’s sake. He’s practically a sea-cow.”

“But Hugh Jackman is in the movies.”

“And here I thought you couldn’t get any more gay.”

“ _Santana-_ ”

Santana waved a languid hand. “Admit defeat, Carol Burnett, or I’mma start a campfire to warm up the tiny people living in your mouth-cave. Which is big enough for the Duggars, just FYI.”

Despite himself, Sam had to laugh. He had never met anyone as simultaneously aggravating and clever as Santana Lopez, even if she had given him a complex about his mouth that he was certain would last until death and perhaps beyond it. She was propped against his bed, grinning in that lazy way that meant there was no heat behind her words, and Sam felt a sudden rush of genuine affection for her. Not love. It was too early for that, and besides, they didn’t make out enough. No, it was like Santana was, god help him, his … bro.

Weird.

Suddenly, inspiration struck him, and he smiled widely. He dug around under his bed and pulled out yet another overflowing box. “I’ve got it.”

“Herpes?” Santana was on a roll.

“The comic you will like,” Sam said, digging through the box, old issues of _Bone_ and _Ultimate Spider-Man_ spilling to the floor. “The comic you will, in fact, love.”

Santana rolled her eyes and held out her hand. “Prepare to lose, Northstar. Hit me with your best shot.”

Sam smiled and passed over issues one, two and three _._

Santana glanced down at the top cover, and Sam saw her eyebrows raise a little. “ _Batwoman_?”

Sam shuffled over next to her, and plopped down at her side. “Give it a chance. She’s kickass, like you, she’s sexy-”

Santana smiled archly. “Like me.” She began flipping through an issue.

“Obviously. She fights evil … well, not like you. And she’s-”

“Kissing a girl.”

A silence fell. Santana’s voice was like a glacier, and Sam felt the temperature in the room drop about ten degrees. On her lap, Kathy Kane was twined around Renee Montoya in a decidedly non-platonic way.

“Well, yeah, they made her gay in this reboot,” he explained, wondering why Santana’s face had suddenly drained of all colour.

She turned to him, her hand splayed over the page as if to block out the image. “And you thought I’d like this … why, exactly?”

Sam blinked. “Because she’s strong and awesome and smart and kicks ass and takes names. Like-”

“Like me. Yeah, I got that part.” Santana took a deep breath and wouldn’t look at him. Instead, her hand shifted a little, and she glanced back at the page, eyes drawn helplessly downward.

Sam was a little on edge for no reason he could ascertain. He watched Santana’s eyes flick over the comic, away and back again, away and back again, watched the way her knuckles tightened and turned white at the edges. There was something different about her breathing, and all of a sudden, she looked like a 12-year old caught doing something she shouldn’t have.

Santana raised her chin, and met his eyes. “Fail,” she announced, casually, although there was nothing casual about her body language or tone. She dropped the comic book to the floor. It fell open to yet another panel with lady-kisses, and Sam saw her glance down again, like she couldn’t help it, before looking up at him. “Sorry, fanboy, not my scene. Another swing and a miss for salamander face. Guess you can’t convert me after all.”

She turned to her bag and began digging inside. Eventually, she came out with a nail file, and leant back against his bed, buffing, studiously avoiding his eyes.

Sam couldn’t read the mood in the room anymore. He was painfully aware that _something_ had just occurred, but unaware of what, exactly, it was. He didn’t say anything, but eventually shrugged and moved back to pick up _Preacher_ from where it had fallen.

They didn’t talk for a while. The air felt prickly. Santana said nothing, and Sam didn’t know why he felt like everything had turned sour; their earlier playfulness and sense of friendship totally gone.

Eventually, he couldn’t stand it anymore, and got up to get them some drinks from the kitchen in an effort to break the silence. When he came back, Santana was collecting her things from around the room.

Sam stood in the doorway, a glass in each hand. “You don’t have to go, do you?”

Santana didn’t look at him. “Britt called. BFF time.” She breezed up to him in the doorway, brushed a quick, light kiss onto his lips. “Sorry, you lose, Trouty.”

Before Sam could do or say anything, she was gone. He put the glasses down on his desk, and sat on the bed, wondering what in the hell had just happened, and – ashamed of himself – secretly relieved she had gone, taking the icy blast of strange, charged air with her. Sam decided to just chalk it up to one of Santana’s weird days. At least she hadn’t thrown anything at him this time.

It was a while later, when Sam was cleaning up, that he realised all the _Batwoman_ comics had disappeared.

It was a while after that, when Sam was sitting, thinking deeply about the events of both the party and that day, and then remembering _Landslide_ and seeing it in a whole new light (Artie’s reaction made heaps more sense now!), that he finally realised what Santana was hiding. The events of their patchy, bro-like relationship suddenly became clear to him, and Sam found that instead of being angry or hurt, he was kind of relieved that it wasn’t something he’d done.

And it was a while after that, smiling to himself, when Sam decided he should probably break up with Santana, but he’d never tell anyone why. Because Santana was kickass. And sexy. And she was totally awesome. And she had a secret identity.

Just like Batwoman.


End file.
